WHere Have All the Flowers Gone?
by Kate Browne
Summary: All the gang's come to a 25th anniversary reunion in Britain--as has an old headache who wants Hogan's help. Can the Heroes pull off one last, desparate escape?
1. Prologue

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

"Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time passing?

Where have all the soldiers gone?  A long, long time ago?

Gone to graveyards, everyone.

When will they ever learn?  When will they ever learn?"

Pete Seeger

Prologue

London, England: December 1968

At the breakfast table, Patrick Hogan placed a silver bow on a multicolored package.  The painfully thin young man put the wrapped package to one side and reached for an unwrapped gift. "Let me get this damned misery over with," he muttered. 

He bent over to retrieve the riband he'd dropped, but Clouseau, the huge Himalayan, had already started batting it around the kitchen. "Thanks awfully for your help, Feline," Patrick remarked.  The cat ignored him completely.  GDP watched disdainfully from his cage.

He'd begun wrapping when his father, Robert, stumbled and shuffled into the kitchen. Without looking up, he called cheerfully, "Good morning, Dad.  Sleep well?"  Patrick heard his father head for coffeepot.  "Sorry, no coffee this morning.  You'll have to settle for tea."

Hogan felt vexed, but poured himself a cup anyway.  "I suppose I have you to thank for turning off my alarm clock?" he accused.  The parrot squawked loudly.  Hogan shot it an evil grimace.

"Well, in your condition, would you have appreciated it going off at 6:30 this morning?"  Patrick kept his head bent over his work.  "Face it, Dad, you and Mom came home very late and were quite giddy when you went to bed."

"Suzanne and I crashed and burned."  Hogan looked over the rim of his raised cup at his son.  He'd been startled when Patrick had first called Suzanne 'Mom'.  His son had been quick to explain that referring to them as 'Dad and Suzanne' had seemed to say that she wasn't part of the family, which most certainly was not the case.  And it hadn't seemed too respectful, either, so he'd adopted the American term as a way to express his respect and affection.  _And you almost left me in tears that day, Patrick._

The young man giggled.  "If you say so.  I thought you both needed a bit of a lie-in, so I came in and turned the alarm off." He looked up at his father. "You and Mom were so sweet and adorable, curled up against each other, with Clouseau balled up at your feet."

Hogan ignored the wide, too cheery grin.  "So that's the other reason my head feels like a football."  Just as he glanced down, the heavy cat pounced on his foot.  He yelped, hurting his head.  GDP squawked twice.  He glared at the bird, rubbed a temple.  "Patrick, why the hell didn't you get the cat off the bed?  You know what happens to my nose when he does that."

With hands on hips, Patrick cocked his head.  "And wake you both in the resulting catfight?  Not ruddy likely.  Besides, he was SO happy.  I couldn't deny him."

Hogan downed the last of his tea and looked bleary-eyed at his son.  "But you could deny me the ability to breathe for the day?  Thanks a lot, kid!" 

"So how was the ball?"

His father, unfazed at the change in subject, poured another cup of tea and leaned against the counter. His silk dressing gown fell open, revealing the half-buttoned pyjamas beneath. "Awful.  Ambassadorial positions are turning into purely political plums, and the current American ambassador is a heavy contributor to the Democratic Party.  The Democrats lost the election.  And when the Nixon administration gets settled, he's out of a job.  In short, the guy wasn't particularly pleased to be celebrating his last official Christmas in England.  Not that I care.  I won't miss him."  

"So which way did you vote?"

"I haven't voted in a presidential election since 1952."  He rubbed a finger along the side of his nose.  "I keep a weather eye on American domestic politics, but since I don't live there anymore, it's not that big a deal."  _And at my level, I don't have to worry about losing my job.  I just have to implement new policy directives–when and if I get them._

"Don't you pay any mind to what goes on in States?  It is after all where you're from, your home?"

Ignoring the question completely, Hogan walked over to the breakfast table and put a finger down in the middle of the bow his son was trying to tie.  "Then, of course, there was the fact that Suzanne and the ambassador's wife were wearing the exact, same dress in the exact, same color."

"Are you serious? What did Mom do?"  The bow sat awkwardly on a misshapen package.

"Oh, nothing.  But I had to suffer the slings and arrows of the outraged female.  The ambassador's wife, who naturally came off second-best, played the cat to perfection, making cracks about the private nature of the wedding, Suzanne's being French, even my 'frail' hip."

"Crikey! What a witch!"

"The whole thing was going to be the usual deadly bore until Luigi Bonacelli showed up.  I'm still not sure how he finagled his way into the wingding, but thank God he did."  Hogan moved packages aside and sat down.  Standing up was getting to him.  "We talked about old times and the things that have changed since the war.  And best of all, he didn't fall in love with my wife this time."  

"What was that?"

"Bonacelli met your mother in Rome in early 1945 and fell madly in love with her.  He sent her florid love letters every month for almost 12 years.  They gave your mother the giggles and after reading some of them, I could understand."  Hogan couldn't imagine himself ever writing anything so embarrassing; Bonacelli had taken billing and cooing to Baroque heights.  "One came the month after she died.  I had to tell him his inamorata was gone." 

Eyes unfocused, he gazed through the window, lost in the past until his son touched his elbow.  "I'm all right, Patrick.  Her death had the effect of repairing the rupture between me and Buonacelli."  He shook his head slightly–and regretted it.  "Anyway, we skipped out on the ball around midnight, and then spent too much time at a very good Italian restaurant drinking far too much asti spumanti and sambuca." His head rested between his hands.

Patrick leaned over him, concerned.  "Dad, why don't you go back to bed?  You look all in."

Smiling up at his son, he caught sight of the kitchen clock.  11:50am. "No such luck. I have to see Dr. Rathbone in about 3 hours." He made a face.  

"Things all right?"  

The car wreck in May had jarred his father's hip, but the damage–and the resulting pain–hadn't become apparent until July.  By August, the pain had become unendurable, movement virtually impossible, forcing surgery that had gone better than expected.

"Things are fine, Sport.  Rathbone is very pleased with my progress, but I can't say I'm impressed with him."  

Dick Reynolds had recommended him as the best orthopedic surgeon in London, but had warned that Rathbone was all science and little compassion.  _That was putting it mildly, Dick_._  Once my year of check ups are over, I never want to see that reptile again._  He forced himself to stand up.  "I suppose Suzanne went out already?"

"She and Rennie left about 10:30 this morning to finish their Christmas shopping."

"Oh, boy, there goes the bank account."

"I'll tell Mom you said that."

"Tattle-tale."  Giving his son a mock glare, he moved around the table.  "I'm going to take a shower.  If I'm not out in 20 minutes, you'll have to send the Navy after me."  He headed through the door, but turned back.  "By the way, Patrick, I'm not ignorant of what goes on in the States.  Not by any stretch.  I just don't plan to live there after I retire.  Home is Britain."  _And God knows I can't wait to retire. _

*****

Walking into the dim, smoky pub, Hogan carefully picked his way to the bar.  He hoisted himself onto a stool, waited for the publican to notice him.  The atmosphere of cigarette and pipe smoke made the American yearn for a cigarette, something he'd given up decades ago.  _I'll have a cigar later, after dinner._

  
Peter Newkirk, now a greying, heavyset, ruddy-complected Englishman, popped up.  "The porter or the whiskey, colonel?"  He'd got a quick glimpse of the hawthorn cane.

  
"The whiskey, Newkirk, and yes, I've just been to see Dr. Rathbone."  He pronounced the doctor's name with real distaste. 

Newkirk shuddered in commiseration.  "'E comes in 'ere occasionally.  Fair gives me the creeps, 'e does."  
  
"Imagine being his patient."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."  He set the neat whiskey down and refused payment.  "Least you can do is drink some of the profits you earn.  You don't do nowt else, sir."

  
"Except plough them back into this establishment."  Sipping his drink, Hogan remembered what a shock it had been--to them both--to find that Miri had bankrolled Newkirk.  That partnership had dissolved on her death, but he and the Cockney, much to the solicitors' disgust, had opted to renew the partnership under the old terms.  Only the names had changed:  The Emergency Tunnel had become The Major's Folly. Hogan could still hear his old comrade-in-arms' voice: 'And a right piece of folly, it were, too.'  
  
"A penny for your thoughts, colonel."  

"They're not worth a plugged nickel."  He smiled broadly at Newkirk and kicked himself for lollygagging in memory lane. The Englishman was a sharp, shrewd observer in his own way, Hogan knew.  
  
"And pigs fly, colonel."  But he changed the subject. "I got a letter from Louis LeBeau two days ago."  
  
Hogan brightened.  "What does Louis have to allow?"  
  
"'E's fine, business doin' well, the problems with 'is missus smoothed over...."  
  


"His mother-in-law?"  
  
"Wot else?"  
  
Shaking his head ruefully, Hogan mused aloud, "Twice married, no mother-in-law at all.  Thank God."  
  
"Lucky you," retorted Newkirk who wiped down the bar.  
  


"So what else did Louis say?"  Hogan wasn't going to fish in troubled waters, not with the twice-divorced Newkirk.  
  


"Louis' been natterin' on about a reunion of the fellas from Stalag 13."  Newkirk leaned an elbow on the bar, tossed the bar towel over his left shoulder.  "I'd like to see me old mates again, but I 'aven't 'eard much from the other side of the duck pond."  
  


Hogan sat in silence and nursed his drink.  Already feeling somewhat nostalgic--_Age getting the better of you, Rob?_--he answered, "You know, that's a great idea.  Is the problem getting a hold of the guys in the States? I have to be there next month, so I can contact them from Washington.  I got cards this year from both Kinch and Carter." He snickered.  "Andrew's oldest daughter Annie is married and expecting her first child."  
  
Newkirk's elbow slipped, almost causing his chin to hit the Guinness tap. "Blimey!  Andrew a grandfather?  'E'll be a ruddy 'overin' menace to 'is poor girl.  Worse than you by a long measure."  

"Thanks so much, Peter," Hogan responded only half-testily.  At Newkirk's arched eyebrow and wry expression, he had to concede.  "Okay, okay.  So I was a bit anxious.  Geez!  My only daughter's first child.  What did you expect?  Indifference?"

Newkirk laughed.  "Not at all, but anxious ain't the word for wot you were.  A bloody nervous wreck drivn' hevery body bonkers, you were."

Ignoring the too accurate description, Hogan abruptly switched back to the reunion.  "Anyway, so should I contact Kinch and Carter?  We should try not to conflict with Annie's due date."

Newkirk answered, "Yeah.  I'll talk to Louis about when's a good time and get back to you."

"Good."  The retired officer hadn't missed Newkirk's surprise.  "Shock you, did I?  Well, old bean, you've no idea what that command or the men in it meant to me."  
  
The phone cut off any further commentary.  Newkirk stepped back to pick it up.  "Major's Folly."  He listened for a moment.  "Yes, ma'am, 'e's 'ere.  Righto.  I'll tell 'im.  Good-bye now."  He looked meaningfully at Hogan.  "Your missus, colonel.  She wants you 'ome right away."  
  


He wracked his brains for any reason that Suzanne would call here for him.   As he slid off the stool, picked up his hat and cane, it flooded into his brain.  "Oh, God.  From one to the other, just like a Goddamned ping-pong ball."

  
"Colonel?"  
  


With a weary, pained expression, he responded.  "I play chess with Dick Reynolds after I see Rathbone.  This way he can pick my examination apart without seeming to do so.  He thinks he's being a clever dick by doing this."  
  


Newkirk groaned.  "Oy, right," he mumbled as he watched Hogan walk out of the pub.  

*****

"Ah, there ye are, Rob.  Been wonderin' where ye've been," Dr. Dick Reynolds boomed from the kitchen where Suzanne worked on dinner.

"You interrupted a very pleasant whiskey at The Major's Folly."  Hogan slid an arm around his wife's waist and kissed her upturned cheek.

"Sorry aboot that, lad.  If I'd known, I'd've joined ye, instead of bein' ordered aboot and set to work as if I were some sort o' scullery maid."  He gave Suzanne a slight scowl and shook a finger at her.  

"If you're going to be in here, you must work," Suzanne replied emphatically.  "There are no ornaments in my kitchen."  She tried to step back from the counter, but her husband still held her fast.  "Robert, the same goes for you."

"You mean I can't nuzzle your neck?"  He tried, only to be swatted away.  Releasing her, he stole a kiss as she turned around. "Um.  You taste good.  What are you making?" She tasted like oranges.

Suzanne put her hands on her husband's chest and pushed him out of her way.  "That is for me to know and you to find out." Making shooing motions at both Hogan and Reynolds, she added, "Now, will you both go away?  You're just underfoot."

"All right," Hogan moaned, looking and sounding like a dejected little boy.

"Parbleu!  Quel homme insupportable!"

Dick laughed and pushed Hogan toward the door.  "It's all right, Suzi, I'll keep tha birthday boy out of yer hair."

"Vite! Vite!"  

Once in the study, Hogan poured them each a whiskey, sprayed soda into Dick's Scotch.  "You know, it's amazing that Suzanne likes to cook, given she's a chemist."  He handed the Scot his drink.  "And you like to live dangerously."

"Aye, Rob?"

"Calling her Suzi is pretty reckless."  They sat down at the chessboard.  Hogan picked up a pawn of each color, tossed them back and forth a moment, and then held out two closed fists.  "Choose."  Dick tapped the left hand.  "You're black.  Opening move to me."

"I'll probably have the board wiped up with ye in 10 moves."

"Says who?"

"Dr. Rathbone."  Hogan made an unpleasant noise.  "Yer game is always off after ye've seen him, Rob. So how was today's visit?  What did tha vulture have ye doin'?  Range o' motion exam?" __

Hogan looked up from the chessboard.  He'd opened with the queen's knight.  "Your move."  THe doctor took a general, give-nothing-away opening: the king's pawn two spaces forward.  Hogan moved the king's knight. An unconventional start.  He commented, while Dick moved the king's bishop out, "You know perfectly well what goes on when I see Rathbone.  You're just fishing to find out how I feel about it."

"I'm not fishing, Rob.  I know damned well ye doan like tha mon.  Few do.  And he's not much better as a colleague."  Reynolds moved the queen's pawn forward and watched Hogan follow suit.  _His play is positively erratic today._ "It's yer agitation that concerns me.  Tha mon just bloody upsets ye."

"I hate being treated like a hunk of meat.  I'm not even a human being to him.  Just another successful surgery.  I swear, I could drop dead in his office, and he wouldn't care."  He downed a finger of whiskey.  

Dick pondered the board.  He moved another pawn.  "What else bothers ye, lad?" 

"Rathbone makes damned sure I know how old I am.  Thank you, but I don't need to be reminded of that."

Taking a hefty swallow of his whiskey soda, the Scot shot back, "There, Rob, ye're wrong.  Ye do need to be reminded.  Ye've always pushed yerself hard, never mindin' tha consequences.  Well, lad, ye're to an age now where that can be disastrous.  And as good as Rathbone and I are, we canna fix everything." 

"Dick, I may be ready to retire, but I'm not ready for the grave."

Blue eyes met brown.  "Did Rathbone suggest that?"  _Now, we're gettin' into territory where I do have sommat to say._  "Yer general health, Rob, is excellent, especially now that ye've rid yerself of tha pain of that arthritic hip.  But the best thing ye did for yerself was marryin' Suzi.  Happy people are longer-lived people."  

"I don't think I needed Rathbone on my birthday." He got up from the chessboard. 

Heavy, contemplative silence filled the space between the two men.  

"As an adult, I've always hated my birthday.  Do you realize that I've outlived my own father by 13 years?"

"No, I didn't."  Reynolds swivelled in his seat, watched his friend walk over to the coal fireplace.  

"Dad was only 48 when he dropped dead. Heart attack."  He stared down at his whiskey.  "I'd turned 23 two days prior, and I got the thrill of finding him, dead, on the front porch.  I've never forgotten it." He threw back his Scotch. "I suppose I've dredged this up because of Maggie's funeral earlier this month and Patrick's 21st  birthday in about two weeks."

"How old was your sister?"  Dick recalled all the questions about breast cancer and its treatment. It had not been an easy road.

"48. Just like Dad."  Hogan heard his doctor groan.  "And her children are 20 and 15 respectively.  Kevin, at 15, has had more familial trauma than the law allows.  Parents divorced when he was 10 and now his mother dies. I don't know what's going to happen to him." A snort. "But whatever does, his own sister is going to be no damned help.  A self-absorbed hippie.  Renate, Patrick and their cousins Liam and Mickey washed their hands of Emily at Thanksgiving–when we all gathered in Bridgeport for one last celebration with Maggie."

"What's a hippie?"

_"_Are you putting me on?" No answer, so he continued. "They're the same people who listen to psychedelic music and drop acid.  They're also usually into universal peace, brotherhood, and free love."  

"Ah, charming."  Dick answered noncommitally, finished his whiskey in one gulp.  He'd gotten more out of his friend and patient than he'd expected.  _Ye're__ not a total waste, Rathbone.  Rob needed to get all this off his chest.  Now, let's finish this._  "How does Patrick fit into this?"

Hogan gave a slight, lopsided grin.  "I may have outlived Dad by 13 years, but Patrick is still 2 years younger than I was when Dad died." He stared at the empty tumbler. "I just wish...."

"Aye?" 

Deep, regretful sigh. "That I'd been younger when Patrick was born." He rolled the tumbler between his hands.  "I guess that Rathbone just brought up the grim circularity of it all."

"The holidays, in addition to your birthday, when most of us grouse about our age, what we've done and not done, haven't helped, either."  The doctor looked at his watch.  _Margaret'll__ be here soon._

"True enough."  He set his whiskey glass down and noticed the doctor's was empty.  "Another?"  Dick shook his head; Hogan said, "I certainly don't want or need one."  He looked up at the ceiling.  "I can't believe how maudlin I've been."

"We all need to talk, lad.  Mind, body, and soul are all interconnected."  Seeing the blatant skepticism, he held up a hand:  "There's nothing new in that concept, Rob.  St. Augustine knew it well enough."

"What's this about St. Augustine?"  

Margaret Reynolds stuck her grey-blonde head into the study, immediately lightening the atmosphere in the room.  Her azure eyes fixed them both.  "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll keep until after dinner.  It's time ye both got changed."

"We're dressing for dinner?"  

Dick headed over to his wife.  "Aye, lad.  We're doin' yer birthday up right."  He put an arm around her plump shoulders; she indicated that she'd brought his formal kilt.

"Oh, thanks.  Now, I have struggle into my tux." 

"Ach, Rob, ye're always sae elegant." She reached out and patted his small paunch.  "Even if ye've put on a bit of weight. It's nice to know Suzi's doin' right by ye, puttin' some meat on yer bones.  Ye always were too thin."

"Whatever you say.  Dick, the guest room is yours.  Pink and frilly as it is."  

Dick made a face and clutched his abdomen before his wife hauled him from the study.  

*****

Christmas afternoon was, in complete contrast to the rambunctious morning, still and quiet.  Renate Hogan Hammond appreciated the peace, especially since her two young boys had willingly surrendered to Suzanne's promise to read Babar to them.  Nigel loved Babar, and Miles refused to be left out.  She had been amused to watch Suzanne curl up against her pillows with the boys, one on each side of her.  In the time it had taken for Renate to get a cuppa, both children had fallen fast asleep against their Grandmama.  Knowing them to be supremely happy, Renate left Suzanne to her own uneasy nap of constant movement and touching.  She chuckled to herself.  _Those two make Papa at his restless worst look like a log_.

With half-drained mug in hand, Renate walked into the study.  It was her favorite room in her father's house.  It seemed a very masculine room, yet very inviting, and while her father was no Victorian, the room suited him, even reflected him.  It fit him like the soft wool cardigans he always wore around the house.  And her father, wearing the Prussian blue sweater she'd given him for his birthday, sat in his red wingback reading chair; The Times crossword was open in front of him.  Thinking him absorbed and oblivious to her, she sat down on the floor next to him; with her legs tucked under her, she leaned against his, chin resting on his knee.

*****

His left hand came down gently on the top of her black, wavy hair, stroked it gently.  He watched her eyes close, her whole body relax in contentment.  His mind replayed a less happy scene: her arrival in England back in early 1958; she'd been a very frightened, terribly shy, awkward teenager.  Not a surprise, given her mother's death, rejection by her German family, reunion with a father she'd never known.  Cognizant of her insecurity with him, Hogan remembered her always sneaking up on him, trying, almost, to steal affection from him unnoticed.   He knew she'd been testing him, seeing how far she could go with him.  By letting her come to him in her own time_, _not rejecting any tentative move, he'd earned her trust.  Not quickly, but permanently. He gave a soft snort of mirth.  _All those courtships had to count for something._ While some mannerisms had died away, her leaning against his knee when she wanted to talk had remained.  It was uniquely Renate.  And he'd missed it.

After several minutes, he broke the silence.  "So, what have you done with the holy terrors?  I haven't 

class=Section2> 

heard a scream or a shout in half an hour."  He raised an eyebrow.  "Don't tell me you've stuffed them in their stockings?"

Renate snickered.  "As tempting as that is, no, I haven't.  They're asleep upstairs–with Susanna."

He didn't miss the German pronunciation; it marked her coming to terms with his marriage and her growing friendship with his wife.  "Oh, wonderful.  My wife is going to look like she's been pulled six ways for Sunday."

Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she replied, "That's unfair, Papa.  The boys don't do Susanna any harm, and she's very good with them."

"Better than you expected?"

"Yes." She glanced up at him, her emerald eyes intense.  "I'm sorry I gave you such trouble.  I'd had visions of the wicked stepmother."  She blinked back tears.  "I'm glad you're so happy with her."

_What an admission!_  Hogan was stunned, unable to reply for a few moments.  It was rare for Renate, unless directly confronted, to make any kind of deeply personal statement.  "Honey, I would never let anyone come between us.  I told you that at the time.  You should've had more faith in me."  His voice was soft, reassuring.

"I know, Papa.  I had nothing to be afraid of."  She sniffed.

"You are my daughter, and I will always love you.  And I don't love you any less or any differently than I do Patrick.  You're both my children."

She squeezed his knee.  "I know that, too, Papa.  I think I realized that when Nigel and Miles were born.  And of course watching you with them is such a treat.  They adore you."  She paused. "Watching you read to them, play with them, hold them, and even discipline them, I know what I missed.  Why did Mama do that to me? To you? I think she was very wrong not to tell you."  A couple of tears coursed down her cheeks.

Hogan exhaled sharply.  He'd asked himself that question repeatedly and had finally probed Schultz, who'd refused to say anything.  The old toymaker had kept Helga's confidence to the end.  

"You're asking the wrong person, honey. I don't know why.  I can hazard a couple of guesses, most of which had to do with the war.  I don't think she saw how we could get married, and maybe she didn't even want to get married.  Maybe she figured I'd escape or I'd be liberated and I wouldn't be able or want to come looking for her.  Had she told me, instead of disappearing, I'd've stood by her, though we probably would've had to wait until after the war to get married." He kept control of his voice and his expression, showing only paternal affection.  "Whatever her reasons, Renate, I am sure she thought she was doing the best thing for you, but I can honestly tell you that the biggest regret I have is missing your childhood."

"What about Patrick's mother?"

That sent a shaft through his heart.  _Yes, indeed, what about Miri?_  "I don't know," he answered lamely. _I can't imagine my life without Miri, without Patrick.  And I don't even want to try._

They retreated into an awkward silence until Renate yawned and stretched before cozying back against his legs. He ruffled her hair.  "Sweetheart, I do wish you'd get up off the drafty floor.  It isn't good for you.  The baby doesn't need for you to catch cold."

She blushed ferociously and glanced sharply at him.  "How did you know?"

"You mean, aside from the fact you're showing?"  He clucked at her, motioning her to the sofa. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?  Come on, tell me.  When can I expect to hold this next one?"

"May," she huffed as she got awkwardly to her feet and moved to the sofa.  "Happy now?"

"I'd be happier if you'd put your feet up and tuck the afghan around you."

"I'm pregnant, not sick.  You don't have to hover over me.  And it's not like I haven't done this before."  

"No need to go looking for trouble."  He got up, handed her another pillow, fussed with the afghan, which had seen better days and was covered in cream colored cat fur.

"Papa, please!  I'm not made of glass. Why do you always carry on like this?  The first time I could understand, but now?  Even Paul doesn't act like this." 

"Renate, I'm your father; I worry about you.  Miles' birth was no picnic for you, and frankly, it scared the hell out of me."  He returned her direct gaze.  "It reminded me too damned much of Patrick's birth.  Miri was so physically injured that she could hardly move for 2 weeks.  And," he paused awkwardly, "she couldn't have another child."

"Mein Gott! You wanted a big family, didn't you?"

"At least bigger than one."  He sighed heavily.  "I didn't realize it at the time.  It didn't become clear to me until I knew it wasn't going to happen.  That's why I look at you as an unexpected gift." _Where the hell did that come from?  It's true, but still. _ He leaned over and kissed her forehead.  "Now, will you kindly humor your old man?  Okay?"

"Okay, Papa," she replied softly.

*****

"I can't believe what a roller coaster this week has been," Hogan muttered, yawning and climbing into bed. "You do know that Renate's expecting again?"

"Yes.  She told me several weeks ago, and I know that she wants a girl."  Seated at the vanity, Suzanne began brushing her hair with quick, even strokes.  Her kimono sleeves bobbed up and down.

"And I have to find out by observation?" he cried.

"Because you fuss too much over her."  She didn't look back at her husband.  "Robert, you may not have noticed this, but your daughter is temperamentally much more like you than your son.  Oh, Patrick can be an infuriating tease at times, and he has a couple of your traits, but Renate behaves like you–-up to and including no coddling or fussing.  And you both take the same aggrieved tone, too."

He thought about it a moment.  "I guess you don't always see what's right under your nose, do you?"

"The understatement of the week."  

Suzanne put her hairbrush down, stood up and stretched.  Turning to the bed, she removed her black and silver kimono and draped it over the back of a chair.  Her lavender silk nightgown shimmered as she moved.  

Pulling aside the covers, she slid into bed, turned on her left side to face her husband.  "Did you know that Patrick is in love with Penny?"

His eyes widened in surprise; he didn't like her suggestion one bit.  "No way, Suzanne.  You must be mistaken.  They've grown up together.  They're more like brother and sister."  He watched her cross her arms over her chest and stare at him impatiently.  "All right, what makes you think this?" 

"They behave toward each other like lovers, not siblings. I've caught their glancing looks at each other, the hand holding  when they thought no one was watching. I came out of the kitchen and caught them under the mistletoe.  It was no quick peck on the cheek like he gives Renate or me. Patrick kissed Penny with the same intensity, the same panache with which you kiss me."  She shivered.  "I was so embarrassed."

With fingers over his mouth, curled under his chin, Hogan turned her words over his mind.  "If you noticed, then there's no question Judith noticed.  That woman never misses anything."  His tone was dull as he leaned back against his pillows.

"You say that unhappily.  What's so wrong with Patrick and Penny?"

"Several things.  One is that Robbie and Judith are Patrick's godparents as Miri and I were to Penny.  That makes them spiritually brother and sister."  She looked at him in non-comprehension.  "Okay, okay, there are times when I really show I grew up Catholic.  But a bigger hitch is that Judith has social aspirations for Penny.  Patrick is hardly the catch of the season for Lady Roberts."  He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a different tone, rejected the whole scenario. "You make it sound like they're getting married next week, when all it really is is puppy love."

"Robert, I'm not an idiot..."

"I never said you were."

"...but Patrick looks at Penny the way you look at me.  In fact, I caught one sidelong glance that so reminded me of you, it hurt.  Everybody comments, you included, on how much Patrick is like his mother.  Vraiment.  But, in this respect, Robert, he is completely your son.  His feelings are right out there for all to see.  And Penny reciprocates."

"More's the pity then."  Ignoring her comment about his wearing his heart on his sleeve, he concentrated on her furrowed eyebrows.  "If it comes to it, Judith and Robbie'll forbid them to marry. Robbie is my closest friend and Patrick's godfather, and while I doubt that he'd have any real objections to Patrick marrying his daughter, besides the obvious that they're too young, he won't go against his wife.  I wouldn't ask him to, either."  Seeing her shock, he pulled her close, caught the faint traces of her perfume.  

"Did you think Renate too young also?"

He kissed her temple.  "Yes.  I told her so and insisted on a long engagement."  Suzanne's mouth twisted downwards in disapproval.  "I wanted to make sure Paul was serious, that he'd take care of her.  He was, and he does, so I'm not worried on that score.  With Patrick, it's a different story.  He's cruising for a real heartbreak."  _I've been there, kid; it's no barrel of laughs_.

She pulled away from him.  "What would you do if confronted with such a situation?"

Without hesitation: "I'd elope."

"What makes you think Patrick wouldn't do likewise?"

"Suzanne...I don't want to think about any of this."  After plumping his pillows, he slid down in the bed and turned on his side.  "Good night," he said brusquely, suddenly affronted.

"Bonne nuit, Robert."  She tucked herself up and turned out the light.  

Hogan lay awake, knew Suzanne was hurt and didn't know what she'd done.  Moving close beside her, he rose up on an elbow and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.  "Suzanne, I'm not angry with you. It's sort of a kill the messenger reaction."  He heard her chuckle faintly.  

"I wondered if you thought I were interfering."

"In what?  You're my wife; you're part of this family.  If I don't like having pertinent questions asked about my assumptions, that's my problem.  One I'd better damned well get over." 

"What will you do if Patrick wants to marry Penny?"

"If he's really in love and really wants to marry her, I'm not going to stand in his way.  I will try to insist on a long engagement, but if he elopes without telling me, there's nothing I can do but accept his decision."  He shuddered.  _I'm not sure I can see them as husband and wife.  I've always thought of them as brother and sister._

"I can't believe Patrick would hurt you so."  

She reached up to him, sliding her hand gently from his cheek to the back of his neck, and pulled him to her.  They kissed with a gentle passion and settled under the covers.  He wrapped an arm around his wife who buried her face in his chest; her right arm encompassed his waist.  The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and they relaxed against each other, drifted to sleep.

*****

A ½ carat ruby ring and matching gold band rested in his palm.  Miri's rings.  They'd been taken from her at the hospital, given to him after she'd died.  Both Dick and Judith had insisted that he keep them and pass them to Patrick for his bride.  _The irony is, Judith, your daughter_ _will wear them._  Hogan closed his hand around the rings.

Patrick ambled into the study and asked, "Dad, what are you doing up?  Aren't you on the morning flight to Washington?"  

"I am." He stood up, moved from behind his desk, straightened the heavy, charcoal grey cardigan that Angharad had made him years ago.  "But I wanted to talk to you before I left, and I have no illusions that you'll be up for breakfast."  A faint trace of disapproval.

The 21year-old ran a hand through his straight, salt and pepper hair.  "You're right about that," he admitted. "What did you want to talk about?"

"How serious are you about Penny?"  He'd made a point to observe his son and goddaughter.  What he'd seen had made him realize Suzanne had a keen eye. 

"What...what...do you mean?"  

Hogan's heart sank.  _Your face tells me everything, Sport._  "You're in love.  Have you asked her? Are you engaged?"  His son nodded.  "Think about what you want to do, Patrick, but understand that I will not try to change your mind or dissuade you in any way."  He took a deep breath.  "I would suggest, very strongly, that you take it slowly...."

"Did my godmother call to tell you this?!"  

"Uh, no, she didn't." Hogan was nonplused by the violent  reaction."Suzanne did.  So Judith made clear her opposition?"

Patrick took a deep breath and wrapped his hands in the bottom of his dark blue fisherman's sweater.  "She told us in no uncertain terms we were not to get any ridiculous, romantic notions about each other.  Penny has much better prospects--which I am not to ruin."  

_Well, Judith, just call my son a loser from the wrong side of the tracks.  So, which do you object to more: his being Welsh or his being Irish American?_  Hogan came up to his son, laid a hand on the quivering shoulder, his fingers biting deeply, but reassuringly, through the thick wool.  "Listen, Romeo, I'm not playing Lord Montague to Judith's Lady Capulet...."

"Lady Macbeth is more like."

Overlooking the bitterness, Hogan pressed the rings into his son's hand.  "Whatever you do, don't leave me out of the loop.  Okay?"

The young man stared at the wedding set. "These are Mummy's rings," he said flatly. "Dad...."  His eyes filled with tears.

"I kept them so you could give them to your bride. I didn't think I'd have to pass them on so soon."  Hogan reined back the emotion in his voice. "I think you're too young to even contemplate marriage...."

Patrick cut his father off by enveloping him in a fierce bear hug.  "Thank you."  

His son was stronger than he looked, and after a few moments, Hogan remarked with some difficulty, "Patrick, do you think you could try not to suffocate me?  Or crack my ribs?"  Extricating himself with care from the vice-like grip, he rubbed his sides.  "I'd like to live to see your wedding."

"You'll be there, Dad, I promise."  

"It'll be all right, Sport," he reassured his son.  He straightened and charged, with paternal authority, "One thing:  don't make me a grandfather.  Not right off the bat."

"You're already a grandfather."

"Thanks to your sister.  Don't you make me one, too."  He raised his eyebrows, dropped his chin, gave his son a serious, pointed look.  

Tomato red, Patrick mumbled, "Yes, Dad."

*****

_Bbrrinngg__!  Bbrrinngg!  _The shrill blast of the telephone penetrated Hogan's brain, but failed to rouse him.  Pulling the duvet over his shoulders, he settled more comfortably against Suzanne.  _Bbrrinngg__!  Bbrrinngg!_  The insistent, loud buzz refused to go away.  He rolled over and with one eye venomously glared at the phone.  _Bbrrinngg__!  Bbrrinngg!_  Reaching out, he felt and fumbled around until the receiver fell into his hand.  Completely out of patience, he barked, "Hogan."  5:14am. _This is too damned early.  And I've got the first flight to DC.  Thank you so much, whoever you are.  At least, you didn't wake my wife._  Suzanne had simply followed him, burrowed into his back.  _God forbid, ma belle, you should give up a heat source.  If you wore more substantial nightclothes in the dead of winter...._

The sobbing on the other end of the line cut off his grousing.  It took his groggy brain a few moments to identify his sister-in-law.  "Enya?  Enya, what's wrong?"  Cold prickled his scalp.  He listened to more bawling, his stomach twisting into knots.

"They came to the house a little while ago.  To tell me...Chris...is missing, presumed killed...."  She trailed off in convulsive sobbing.

*****

Hogan sat bolt upright in bed, tumbled Suzanne backwards.  She sat up, hair fell in her face, spaghetti straps slipped off her shoulders. Even as muzzy as she was, she knew something horrible had happened.  Pressing against his side, she curled her hand around his upper arm, laid her forehead on his shoulder. 

She heard him say, "Enya, I'm leaving for Washington in a couple of hours.  As soon as business is concluded there, I'll fly out to Hawaii."

"We'll fly out to Hawaii," Suzanne mouthed.  His expression bleak, he squeezed her hand. 

He rang off, and his shoulders started shaking.  Suzanne gathered him against her.  

"Not another brother to another war.  Not all of them, not my baby brother. I don't want to be the only one left," he howled. 

She felt his arms encircle her waist; she cradled his head between her breasts and rocked back and forth.  His tears soaked her lace bodice.

"Indochine," she hissed. Hatred coursed through her veins.


	2. East Anglia June 1969

East Anglia, England: June 1969

The men threw their cards on the table in dismay and disgust.  Peter Newkirk raked in the chips.  

"You may've grown older, Peter, but you haven't changed a bit.  You could bluff the Queen out of her socks," muttered James Kinchloe.  He ran a hand over his silver-white hair.  
  
"Now, mate, I'd never do that," replied the Cockney. "It'd be treason.  'Er Majesty can keep 'er socks.  The PM's another matter. I'd take old Wilson, no question there."  He paused a moment, before adding, "I wouldn't give 'im any but long odds in the general election."  
  


"Still a bookie, mon guerrier?" asked LeBeau.  "All we need to make this complete is mon colonel, the Boche, and of course, the delectable Marya."  He looked around.  "So where is Colonel 'Ogan?  He should've been here by now."    
  
"Quit your worryin' about the colonel.  'E'll make it."  Newkirk kept his own concern under wraps.  The colonel'd been exhausted every time he'd been in the Major's Folly.  _I wish 'e'd retire.  The poor man'd be a damned sight 'appier 'ome playin' with 'is grandkids, hinstead of galvanting back and forth between __London__ and __Washington__._  
  
Kinch cut across Newkirk's thoughts.  "Oh, come on, Louis.  How can you be so gullible?  And after all this time, too? If there was one person don't want to see again it's that Russian woman.  Trouble followed her like a faithful dog."  He shook his head. "I ought to tell your wife.  What would Anaïs say?"  
  


"Tell her what you like. Anaïs is French; she understands these things."  
  
"Well, I don't," declared Andrew Carter who nervously rose from his seat, knocking the table with his thigh, sloshing everybody's beer.  "I'm going to call Mady."  
  
"That'll be the third time today, mate," moaned Newkirk.    
  
LeBeau muttered to Kinch, "You had to endure this all the way here?"  He shook his hands in front of him and whistled as Kinch nodded in confirmation.  
  
"There's something wrong with being concerned about your daughter?  You don't know anything. You guys aren't grandfathers."  He spun around, coming face to face with Robert Hogan.  
  


"Well, I am, and I think you're carrying on a bit much."  

He gave the pharmacist a broad grin and then warmly shook hands with everyone; Louis added a kiss on each cheek.  

"Sorry I'm late.  I had to get my wife to the airport and then stopped for tea with Crittendon."  They all groaned.  "Hey, I'll be the first to admit the man was a disaster as an officer, but as an amateur botanist and gardener, he's fantastic."

"Geraniums, n'est-ce pas?" LeBeau shuddered.

"Yeah, geraniums."  Rolled eyes.  "You should see his roses.  They're gorgeous. He developed a rosebush named for Miriam.  Deep red, velvet-like petals."

"That geezer must be older than Methuselah," opined Newkirk.  
  
"At 72, he's in better shape than you are, my friend."  Hogan reached over, took away the Englishman's cigarette, and stubbed it out.  "You'd think after a heart attack, you'd quit."  

Kinch and LeBeau swivelled to stare at the Englishman.  He ignored it, but didn't light up.  
  


Carter started to head for the lobby of the Victorian Gothic hotel.  "I don't care want anybody says.  I'm still calling."  
  
"Andrew, don't go believin' the colonel.  'E was a ruddy basket case when the first one was born.  And you should've seen 'im three weeks ago when the twins were born.  Blimey!  You'd've thought 'e'd been shelled." Hogan did a slow burn.  The Englishman returned a broad, sunny smile, appearing completely unfazed.  
  
"How many grandchildren have you got, colonel?" asked a surprised Kinch.    
  
"Four.  And one on the way. Patrick never listens to me.  A new husband and a new father in the same year. Idiot child."  
  
Distracted from his own mission, Carter asked, "You've got pictures?"  
  
"'Ellfire, Andrew, did you 'ave to go askin' that?"    
  
Hogan smiled at the publican, sat down and pulled out his wallet.  "You'll be happy to know, Peter, that Suzanne pruned my wallet before I left."  

class=Section2> 

  
"Thank Gawd."  
  
"Love you, too, Peter."  He turned to Carter.  "Here you are."  

He produced a modest stream of plastic covered photos.  He identified each child and grandchild to them.  They all remarked on how much Patrick resembled his mother, how much Renate took after her Uncle Chris.  

  
Carter shook his head, as he passed pictures of his wife and three daughters around.  "Nigel, Miles, Sebastian, and Alastair.  General, what's your daughter got against Tom, Dick, and Harry?  Annie and Ken have decided on Mary if it's a girl, which Annie says it is, or John if it's a boy.  I'll probably call him Jack." 

"Three daughters?  And each one a 'eartbreaker?  I don't henvy you, mate. That's three weddings to pay for!"  Kinch and LeBeau chuckled.  
  
"It's not my daughter."  Hogan shrugged, ignoring Newkirk's interruption.  "It's my son-in-law.  He's named all his sons for relatives, including his father, who died during the war.  I understand.  I named Patrick that way; if I'd had another son, he'd've been Kevin Michael Timothy, for my father."  

He added, "It's a good thing Paul's out of dead relatives because Renate has sworn she's having no more children.  The twins were quite a surprise."

  
Carter bounced back up.  "I'm going to call Mady."  And this time, he managed to get to the lobby--and a phone.  
  


Hogan looked at his men.  "What's going on? I thought we had avoided Annie's due date."  
  
Kinch exhaled sharply before explaining.  "Annie's overdue.  And Mady's fed up with Andrew's anxiety. So when he said he wasn't coming, she phoned me in Detroit, told me what was going on, and insisted that Andrew come.  She drove him all the way to Minneapolis to make sure he got on the plane; I met up with him in Detroit.  I had to shepherd him the rest of the way.  Now, it's your turn."  His dark eyes swept them all.  
  


"Oh, brother," groaned Hogan.  He spotted the cards in Newkirk's hands.  "Deal."

*****

"Louis, you've outdone yourself."  Hogan patted his stomach as he rose from the table.  "If I keep eating like this, I'm going to gain 10 pounds."

"No kidding," groaned Kinch.  

"'Ere, 'ow'd you get the chef to let you 'ave 'is kitchen?"

LeBeau answered smugly, "Professional secret."  He smiled serenely at the exchange of glances and derisive noises between Carter and Newkirk.

They adjourned to the balcony for port and the cigars that Hogan had brought.  Kinchloe appreciatively blew smoke rings into the slight chill of evening.  A relaxed, gentle smile split his face; he thoughtfully glanced over to Hogan, who savored his own cigar.  "Where did you get such fine cigars?  I haven't tasted anything this good in years."

"You haven't tasted anything this good since the Bay of Pigs."  The Americans blinked.  "Yep, they're the finest Cuban cigars that you can't get in the States anymore."  Carter stared at his as if it would bite him.

Hogan blew smoke straight up.  "And you can get 'em--if you have friends in the right places."

LeBeau purred, "I don't care where you got them, mon colonel.  Ils sont magnifiques."  

Kinch cocked an eyebrow at his former CO who worked his mouth around for a couple of seconds before confessing, "Marya gives me a box every Christmas." 

Holding his cigar carefully, LeBeau hugged himself, dreamy expression softening his face.  "Ah, what a woman.  I wish she were here."

Trying to run interference, Kinch asked, "What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"  

"Shssh!" Hogan hissed, giving the little Frenchman a hard look.  "She might hear you."  And then to Kinch, "We're visiting an old air base."

Carter opened his mouth to speak, but Marya cried,"Hogan dahling!"  

The CIA chief cringed as the Russian charged through the open French doors, white silk chiffon gown and duster following expansively behind her.  She reached him, hugged him at the waist, took his cigar and puffed on it. 

She then noticed LeBeau giving her sheeps' eyes.  "Ah my delicious small one!"  Leaving Hogan for the moment, she swept up the Frenchmen into a tight embrace.

Making a strangled noise, Hogan murmured, "She heard you."  He looked over to Kinch leaning on the wrought iron chair, eyeing the Russian with evident distaste.  Carter and Newkirk had moved toward the potted plants, apparently to plot tossing her off the balcony.  They chattered quietly, punctuating their remarks with fingers stabbed at her. Hogan interrupted her lovefest with LeBeau by bluntly asking, "What the hell do you want, Marya?  This is a private reunion."

Marya Sergeivena Bunitskaya gave him a wickedly humorous glance under hooded eyes. Her lips pursed expectantly, giving Hogan  shivers.  

"Dahling, you know there's no such thing as privacy in our business.  I mean, after all, I know how both your wives were and are screamers.  Of course, you're not so bad yourself for making noise. Even at your advanced age."  

"You bugged my bedroom," he shot, each word a bullet.  "And you're as old as I am; I just wear it better."

"Not your bedroom, dahling. Your bed."  She let go of LeBeau to put her hands on her hips, to cock her head.  "However, those years of celibacy made that bug worthless.  Nothing.  Just nothing.  You didn't even talk in your sleep," she breathed, ignoring his crack about her age.  She turned back to LeBeau, running her hand through the Frenchman's iron-gray hair.  

In a fit of real anger–jaw set, eyes blazing–Hogan grabbed Marya's arm and spun her around to face him and demanded, "All right, Marya, what the hell is it?  You wanted my attention.  You've got it," he barked.

Marya laughed, shrugging his hand from her arm.  "I couldn't miss your reunion."  She thwacked his chest with the back of her hand.  "We had such fun together, Hogan, that I just had to join the party."

"Speak for yourself, lady."  Kinch crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a stubborn, immovable visage.

"I'm so glad you're here, Marya," cooed LeBeau.  "I had wished you here."

"And so I am, my small one. Your wish is my command."  She took his cigar, puffing and savoring eagerly.  "The Cubans make good cigars."

"Oh, you two deserve each other," remarked Hogan dryly to the odd couple.  He moved over to Kinch, who'd been joined by Carter and Newkirk.  None of them were happy at her appearance.  "How the hell did we get so lucky?"

"Could be worse, general," answered Carter.

"Right.  Old 'Ochstetter could bloody turn up," added Newkirk, half-turning his head.

Hogan rolled his eyes upward before resting his forehead in his palm.  Kinch clapped him on the back in weary understanding.

*****

Carter, in nightshirt and robe, mournfully stared out the window of the lounge. Hogan, restless himself, walked in and immediately noticed the stiff, awkward body. "You're up late, Andrew."

The lanky North Dakota native jumped, snapping, "So are you, general."

"I just got off the phone with Suzanne."

"It's 2am.  Isn't that a little late to be calling your wife?"

"It would be if she were in London, but she's in Boston for an academic conference. It's a five hour difference."  Hogan sat down, pulled the ends of his dressing gown over his knees.  "What's wrong, Andrew?  Mady give you bad news?"

"No.  Okay, yeah, I'm worried about Annie.  What's wrong with that?  Is there something wrong with wanting to be with your family?  Caring about them?"

Each question drove Hogan a little further back into his chair.  Rarely had he ever seen Carter so upset. "There's nothing wrong with it," he answered firmly, but smiled wryly.  "Unless we carry it too far and become smothering.  Something my daughter has accused me of every time she's had a baby."  He 

class=Section3> 

chuckled softly.

The sound lightened the atmosphere.  "I just don't get the guys," Carter admitted.  "They talk about marriage as if it were a disaster.  I love being married."

"For Newkirk, it was.  Two lousy marriages and two bitter divorces.  Now a rocky relationship with Ginger."   At Carter's questioning face, he went on, "Ginger and Newkirk've been shacking up for 5 years  now.  She throws him out and takes him back on a regular basis.  He's a real yoyo."  Hogan scratched his ear.  "I think he's on the outs now."

"I guess the only woman he really loved was Sister Raphael."

"I wouldn't say that.  I think he genuinely loves Ginger; they just have a tough time living together."  

Hogan didn't like to think about the young nun who'd rescued Newkirk back in 1944, who'd been up to her wimple in resistance work.  She'd gone missing in a bombing raid on Hammelburg.  He assumed she'd been killed; he'd never heard anything to the contrary.  And he never spoke of the nun to the Englishman.

"You know what else I've been thinking about?  Our little trip to eastern Germany during the Airlift."

"Ah.  I thought I'd heard you explaining to the guys why you call me general instead of colonel." _I'm not even going to try to get you guys to call me Rob.  No way that's happening._  "It still gives me nightmares."  

Hogan's mind tripped back to spring 1949 when he'd pulled a mission to rescue a fleeing German scientist.  Carter, who'd also volunteered for flying duty, had ended up on his plane despite his best efforts to get the young man grounded.  The mission had been a disaster from the beginning, and they'd been declared dead.  Their return, with the German scientist, had stunned everyone and had angered more than a few.

"Does it really?"  He swallowed hard.  "Mady was carrying Annie at the time; they told her I was dead."  He turned his head from side to side.  "Whatever happened to the jerk who sold us out?"

"Court-martialed, but he disappeared.  I found him years later still working for us.  I returned his little party favor."  A couple of popping noises.  "And he didn't fare nearly as well as we did."  He looked away a moment. "I hated going to Wales to collect 'my widow'.  Grief had damned near killed her."  

He'd gotten to Caernarfon only to find Angharad beside herself:  Miri would barely eat or take notice of the world around her.  Only Patrick had brought her joy, kept her going.  Angharad had told him that if hadn't've been for the baby, Miri'd have quickly willed herself dead.  It  hadn't felt like that, though, when he'd gotten Miri's fist in his jaw, knocking him flat.  

"It took Miri about a month to snap back to reality, to really understand I was alive, well, and around again.  But it left a permanent scar.  Which was why when I almost killed myself crashing a B-47, she grounded me–2 years before the flight surgeon."  

"I've never been away from Mady for more than a day since then.  Until now."

Hogan stood, tightened his dressing gown.  "Andrew, I'm not ashamed to admit it:  I miss Suzanne.  That's why I was on the phone with her; it's why I can't sleep.  Frankly, I wish she were here instead of Boston." He clapped Carter on the shoulder, but yawned enormously before he could say anything more.

"You need to go to bed, general."

"That's what my wife told me.  It's what Mady would tell you, too."  Carter nodded.

*****

The heavy, cloying scent of jasmine hung in the air. A sultry feminine voice wafted through the dark as Hogan climbed into bed.  "Dahling, why don't you turn on the light?" 

Jumping, he caught his foot in his silk robe and hit the floor hard.  Marya heaved a huge, exaggerated sigh and switched on a light.  Wearing a slinky black peignoir, she reclined on her elbow, watched Hogan stare at her in wrath and shock while rubbing his backside.  "Hurt yourself, dahling?"

"God dammit, Marya!  You're not content with giving me terminal embarrassment, now you've got to both cripple me and give me heart failure!"  He continued to glare up at her from the floor.  

She leaned provocatively over the edge of the bed–he got a very good view of her cleavage–and said, throatily, "I want you to sleep with me."

"And people in Hell want ice water, too!"  Hogan got up with difficulty.  His rump hurt.  He rubbed his hip, trying to massage the pain out of it.  "If this sends me back to Dr. Rathbone, Marya, I'll kill you."  He took in the scantily-clad body.  "Will you get the hell out of my bed?"

She drew herself up and assumed an air of wounded dignity.  "Well," she snorted as she tossed her head back.  "Is that any way to talk to a beautiful woman?"  Tilting her head, she pouted, using her lips to full effect.

Hogan folded his arms over his chest. "Knock off the overacting.  You want something.  What is it?"

Without batting an eyelash, her whole demeanor changed, became quiet and serious.  "I want to defect.  And I want your help, Robert Kyrilivich."

His knees nearly buckled.  He fell forward and leaned on the bed, weakly asking, "You want what?"  There was a roaring in his ears.  

Marya slid off the bed, helped him into it.  As he adjusted himself, she plumped his pillows.  "I want to defect."

"That's what I thought you said."  He sank into his pillows.  "Let me sleep on it," he murmured, feeling enervated.  She pulled the covers up to his chest and kissed him on both cheeks. He couldn't believe it.  _From seductress to nanny.__  Yeeesh!  What's the world coming to?_

*****

Kinch eyed his coffee warily.  He'd discovered very quickly that Louis had been correct when he'd said that the English destroyed coffee.  Ignoring the tepid, weak brew, he bit into his hot, well-buttered toast.  Munching, he saw Hogan step through the French doors, hawthorn cane in hand, and limp over to the 

class=Section4> 

table.  His former CO had barely sat down and poured a cup of tea before Kinch asked, "Out for your morning constitutional?"

"Out on the beach. I walk every morning.  I have to–both to keep this from getting any bigger," he patted his small paunch, "and to keep my hip exercised." He downed his daily regime of pills with his tea.  "I just wish I had a dog to keep me company.  There's no way I'm getting Suzanne up and out walking at 6 o'clock in the morning."  His wife rarely woke up before 7:30am and was always snarling before her first cup of coffee.  

"What's keeping you from getting the dog?"

"My son's parrot and my wife's cat." He shivered slightly.  "They ping-pong around the house as it is.  If I added a dog, it would be a madhouse."

_I'm not going to touch that one, colonel.  Your domestic arrangements are your problem. _"Peter mentioned you'd had your hip replaced.  Do you still need the cane?"  He didn't miss the dark circles under the colonel's eyes or the sound of a stuffy nose.

"Not really, but I've used one for almost nine years now, so that not having it seems stranger than having it. I keep it mostly as a security blanket these days." His expression turned self-conscious.  "Actually, I fell last night, and now, I've got some pain.  Taking it easy should relieve the problem."  He eyed his former radioman. "You've been awfully quiet, Kinch.  What's going on?"

"You don't miss much, do you, colonel?" There was a knife's edge to the tone. "Then again, you can't afford to, can you?"

The toast stopped mid-air.  "No, I didn't get out of intelligence work, Kinch, and you're right, I can't afford not to notice things. But you're a lot more agitated this morning than you were last night.  What's happened?"

Without warning, surprising Kinchloe himself, it burst out.  "Vietnam.  More news about it, and it's a whole lot less complimentary than what's in the States."

"I haven't read this morning's newspaper, and I try to ignore the press on Vietnam."

"You try to ignore it?  How the hell can you do that?  I sure as hell can't.  My only son is MIA over there_."  _He stared angrily at Hogan before hitting himself lightly in the forehead.  "Of course, you can ignore it.  You live in Europe and you can keep your son out of the US army."

"I have to ignore the news, or I'll drive myself nuts.  I read enough official stuff as it is.  And you aren't the only one with family missing over there!  You remember Chris? My baby brother?  He made brigadier general, volunteered for duty over there, and promptly checked into a POW camp!"  Hogan bolted out of his chair to start pacing around.  "And Patrick," he hissed, "is a British subject, not an American citizen, so he's subject to draft at the pleasure of Her Majesty's Government."

"So he did his national service, like Newkirk's son, in nice, safe Britain?" Kinch shot back, sneering.

"No.  He got himself booted out of the Royal Army about 6 weeks after induction.  Ripped up his knee during basic.  Took him 6 months to recover from that injury.  You should've seen us hobbling around the house together–me on my cane, him on his crutches.  What a pair!" He snorted, stopped pacing, leaned both hands on the table. "He's now so undraftable that they'd take his sister first, 4 kids notwithstanding.  

"And there are lots of unsafe places British troops go.  Like Northern Ireland where things have gone from bad to worse.  I'm not envisioning that to be anything less than a low-grade civil war. Ask Peter what he thinks of Marty being stationed in Belfast."  

The Englishman was low-key about his son; theirs was an awkward relationship at best.

He gave Kinch a hard, level stare that caused the engineer to remember what a fierce opponent his former CO could be.  _What a passionate, protective father you are!  Who'd've thought it 25 years ago?  Boy, did the major domesticate you!  You're the spy who stayed home.  _Suddenly deflated, Kinch muttered, "I'm sorry, colonel.  It's not your fault.  You didn't start the war, and you're sure as hell not in a position to stop it."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, Kinch. If I were in your shoes, I'd be just as angry._"_

_"_You ARE just as angry as I am.  And it's not just Chris, either."

"You're right. It isn't just Chris. It's my nephew and grandnephew who were killed in action, too.  When Ted got the letter saying his younger son had been killed, the news gave him his third and fatal heart attack.  Have you got any idea how painful it is to watch a father and son be buried together?"  He wiped his face with a hand.  "And Frankie. He was the spitting image of his grandfather.  It was like losing Jim all over again." 

"And it's all for goddamned nothing."  Without meeting his former CO's eyes, Kinch added, _"_Don't you talk about this with your wife?"

"Do you?"

"I'm divorced, colonel."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."  Eyes locked.  "Henry was 15 when his mom left us flat.  Life was a whole lot easier–and better--without her." _Lydia walked out the door for another man, did it without so much as a backward glance.  Henry hasn't forgiven her yet.  I never will._

Hogan didn't pursue it, but simply answered, "I don't talk to Suzanne about this because she lost both her brothers in Vietnam." He shook his head. "It's unbelievable.  They both survived the war, only to die in Indochina–one in 48, the other at Dien Bien Phu in 54."

"I keep forgetting that Fra_nce_was there before us."

"Well, don't, mon ami," cut in LeBeau who joined them, grimaced at what passed for coffee."Les Anglais.  Ils sont incroyables," he muttered as he reached for the tea.  "Indochine did no favors for France."

"At least your government had the sense to get the hell out after 8 years," replied Kinch. "Not like ours that seems bent on continuing a war that no one wants and is tearing the country apart."  

"Oh, as if we don't know anything about this.  We went right from Indochine to Algerie.  From the jungle to the desert.  From one unwinnable war to another.  Except," LeBeau stabbed a finger into the air, "that Algerie helped bring down the Fourth Republic and that almost put me out of business."  

Kinch raised an eyebrow.

"The currency crisis.  The franc became worthless just when I had extended my business.  My creditors suddenly wanted to be paid in hard currency–dollars, marks or pounds.  If it had not been for Schultz, I would have been sunk."

"Schultz?"

Hogan replied, "Schultz got his company back at the end of the war.  Or what was left of it after we'd bombed it flat.  But he started up again, even though the immediate postwar period was anything but favorable.  He got it rolling again, and by the mid 50s, he was quite wealthy.  Well able to help Louis out."

"He loaned me the marks to pay off my creditors and granted me easy terms to pay him back."  He paused a moment, continued. "He wanted to repay generosity.  I didn't do much of my own cooking by 1958, but whenever Schultz was in Paris–and he loved Paris–I'd cook for him."  

"He said right up to the end the only person who could really make strudel was Louis_," _Hogan picked up. "Schultz had 20 years on me, and I've got probably 10 on you."  He stopped as Newkirk and Andrew drew up to the table.  "Schultz died in 1962 at 75.Louis and I were both at his requiem."  

"Mon colonel, wasn't your daughter with you?"

"Yeah, she was.  Renate was devastated.  Schultz had been like her grandfather for so many years.  She still calls him Opa."

Kinch stared hard at his former CO.

Hogan confessed, "Renate's mother was Fraulein Helga.  Schultz gave her a job and looked after her and Renate.  And when Helga'd died, he told me about my daughter."

"That's why Helga left Stalag 13.  She was...."

He cut Kinch off.  "....carrying my child and I didn't even know it."  

Newkirk asked, chin resting on his palm_,_ elbow right next his teacup.  "So, what 'appened to old Klink?"

"Schultz made him his bookkeeper, mon ami."

"Runnin' a bloody charity shop was 'e?"  

"Klink turned out to be an excellent bookkeeper.  He never was a prize-winner for backbone, but without being threatened at every turn, Herr Kommandant turned out to be competent enough. He's living on his pension in Munich.  With his wife."

"His wife?" queried Carter and Kinch simultaneously, both thunderstruck.

"The former Frau Linkmeyer."  

Between guffaws, Newkirk choked out, "Oh, crikey.  'E's got me sympathy, 'e does.  Klink married to that Tiger tank?  Poor bloke.  Why 'e don't blow 'is brains out is beyond me."  

Kinch nodded in agreement as he held his aching sides.  

"For all we know, that might be a really happy marriage," said Carter.  

His companions fell over each other in helpless laughter. 

Carter pursed his lips and leaned on his tented hands.  "I'm glad you think it's so funny." 

*****

Hot water poured over Hogan's head and tired body.  He stood under the cascade, luxuriating in the pleasant heat, relaxing with every moment.  All his life, he'd been a lover of hot water–a simple means of soothing himself--and today had been long and fatiguing.  The visit to the old air base had dredged up a lot of memories–some of them so funny, some of them so painful.  After this, he'd be ready for bed.  With a wistful sigh, he reached for the taps.  Before he could close them, a voice called out, "Hogan dahling!  You wanted to talk to me, so here I am!"

Grabbing the shower curtain–his hands above hers--he tugged against her, keeping it drawn. He poked his dripping head around, leaving the curtain between them.  "Don't even think about it, Marya!"

She cocked her head, eyed him outrageously, batted her eyelashes at him.  "You are terribly, painfully shy, dahling."

"I'm stark naked."

"Yes, I know, dahling."  She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.  "That's why I'm here."  Her throaty voice sent fear washing down his spine.

The water stopped abruptly.  "Marya...."

"We could be naked together." 

He watched her take a half step back and pull at the ties of her black silk robe.  "NO!" he yelled.  "Dammit!  Marya! I'm a married man.  A very happily married man.  The only woman I get naked with is my wife!"

Hands on hips, she pouted and asked sulkily, "What has Marie Curie got that I don't?"

"My love."  His quiet declaration brought her up short.  Her expression fell, and he used the opportunity to follow up.  "All right, you want to defect.  Why?  I'm not putting my life and career on the line for a whim.  Or because you don't want to go home.  Now, what is it?"  

The silence weighed heavily between them.  

Kicking himself mentally, he watched the emotional layers peel away from her. A matriuska doll. _Why couldn't she have gotten loaded on vodka and saved us both a lot of time? _ He took another tack.  "When did you have a baby, Marya?"

"How did you know?" she demanded anxiously.

Uncertain of this new, very vulnerable side of Marya, Hogan, replied casually, covering his unease, "Your bosom has stretch marks.  Not all the potions in the world will get rid of them."  He shook his head fondly as recalled Miri decrying all of hers and using every last cream to remove them.  She hadn't believed him when he'd told her that he considered them beauty marks.

"April 1945, Robert Kyrilivich.  A daughter, born dead."  She paused, looked up at him with hard, hate-filled eyes.  "Or so I was told.  I've recently found out that she was simply taken from me, given to another couple whose child had, in fact, died. It was done to keep me in the field. Her name now is Galina Viktrovna Ulanova. It should have been Sophia Ilyvna Kerenskaya.  She doesn't know me; she will never know me.  Her father had already died in Poland."  She spat.  ""I have served my country well, suffered numbers of personal outrages, only to suffer this humiliation, this betrayal! Let them take the knife!" 

He began to shiver.  _Younger than Renate, older than Patrick_.  _I can't imagine that.  Well, actually, I can.  Helga, in her way, almost did it to me._  _And Marya's probably banking on that. If I ever needed a reminder of the evil of the Soviet system, here it is in spades_. "Why come to me, Masha?"

She stepped up to the shower curtain, barred him from wrapping himself in it.  "You're my best enemy, Robert Kyrilivich...."

"You think you could use Rob?  It's the regular diminutive for my name."

Placing a hand over her heart, closing her eyes, she remarked solemnly, "I am honored."

"Yeah.  I'm just sick of you mangling my father's name.  Now," his voice hardened, showing impatience, "answer me.  Why me?  Why this way?"

"I envy you."  She watched him a moment.  "You have children, grandchildren.  Put yourself in my place."

His mind flashed back to Patrick's kidnapping.  He'd been ready to kill, had had to stay out of the investigation, had had the most horrendous confrontation with Renate–she'd accused him of loving Patrick more–had been so incredibly relieved at getting his boy back that he'd carried Patrick despite the kid's being 13 years old and too large and heavy for him.  To be in Marya's place–not all the loyal service in the world would outweigh his desire for revenge.   

"All right, Masha.  I'll get you out of here."  He took a deep breath, immediately seeing all the dangers.  "Masha, your people are going to pull all the stops on this one."

She composed herself and moved close to him. Instantly wary, he clutched the plastic shower curtain to himself.  "Don't worry, I am the resident, and I'm simply taking a vacation–to investigate the British navy."

"And they think you're in Plymouth.  Yeah, right."

Deadly seriously, she went on: "And I practically handed GCHQ the code pads."

"That'll get the earl's attention."  Hogan ruminated carefully, rubbed his chin.  "You've set MI5 all over your own people.  They're looking for you in all the wrong places and will be tripping over each other."  He chuckled softly, shook his head.

Her smile was huge.  "Exactly, dahling." 

"Wrong, Marya.  Getting you out of this country is going to be misery because every point of disembarkation is going to be covered.  Remember, the earl has the Defence of the Realm Act on his side. And he hates your guts.  MI5 is going to get in my way, too."  

Hogan didn't like the odds. _I know I'm going to need the guys to help.  Oh, boy.  I don't know if I can sell them on this.  I can't even believe I agreed to this._

"I thought you'd enjoy that challenge, dahling.  Besides which, I can't do everything."  Her dark eyes danced with devilment.  "Well, actually, I can, but that would've threatened your fragile male ego."  

To his furious frown, she laughed throatily before sashaying away in a cloud of black silk and gardenia.  He threw the soap after her.  It made a satisfying thump before sliding down the tile wall.

*****

Hogan sipped his tea, returned the cup to the saucer in his hand, and stared out the window.  The light gray rain contrasted with the dark, gray-green of the ocean; the monochromatic seascape depressed him.  As if he needed anything further to do that.  The guys had decamped for the local pub, but only reluctantly.  He'd had to insist that he didn't feel well, was going to rest.  And it had taken every ounce of persuasion–and some interference from Newkirk–to keep LeBeau from hanging  around as nursemaid.  Hogan smiled to himself.  _Louis is still an incredible fussbudget._

"Yo, Boss," called red-headed Mary Kaiser from across the room.

He watched her stride over to him, dressed in a deep purple cat suit.   _Is it my imagination, or has she put on weight?  Or is that damned outfit emphasizing everything?  _Shaking his head, he groused, "You know, for a spy, you couldn't be louder if you were a fire truck."

"Hey, I learned from the best," she retorted.  "You may be in a lousy mood, Boss, but I didn't come out here, trailed by MI5 the entire way, to have you growl at me.  Papa Bear indeed!"

"Keep it up, Miss Moneypenny, and I'll turn you over to Peter Newkirk."  Hogan knew she had no patience with Newkirk's wit.  Or ladykiller ways.

She shrank back, cringing in mock horror.  "Oh, no.  Not that.  I surrender.  I'll be an obedient, dutiful, little secretary."  

"In my dreams."  He set the teacup aside, asked seriously, "What have you got?"

"At least, you're not so surly now."  She followed him to the stripped sofa by the windows, and settling next to him, she fished through her briefcase, pulled out files.  "Only parts of Bunitskaya's story are verifiable.  Ilya Pavlovich Kerensky was killed in Poland in December 1944–apparently rerouted there instead of Hungary."

"He was a dead man either way."

Mary laid a picture of a pretty young woman on the coffee table.  "Galina Ulanova.  Her birthday checks out, and her parents are listed as Viktor and Yelena Ulanov.  Beyond that, it's all conjecture."

Hogan gazed transfixed at the photo; he felt bewilderment. What could have been a 24 year old Marya smiled up at them.  "Please explain to me how some kids are a carbon copy of one or the other parent, while others don't even look like they belong in the family." 

Ignoring his tangential thoughts, Mary went on.  "Okay, from your reaction, I'd say she's got a case.  From the traffic in signals between London and Moscow, our Soviet friends know something is up.  But they've not been able to do anything...."

"The earl's been all over them like a wet blanket."  Taking a couple of deep breaths, Hogan turned to his secretary, asking, "You said you were followed?  Did you ditch MI5?"

"I lost one tail, Boss, but picked up another and couldn't lose him.  Why is his lordship busting his ass on this one?"

"Marya left enough egg on his face to make an omelette.  Robbie and I still haven't quit laughing about it."  He saw her raised eyebrow demanding clarification.  "About 2 years ago, just as the earl got his post, his affairs got the better of him.  Usually, he's very discreet, and only keeps one mistress at a time, but one refused to be dumped, even after he'd taken up with the next one. He's serially monogamous."  Hogan started to snicker.  "Anyway, Marya, with her usual ability to pick up the dirt, turned two minor KGB agents on his former and current mistresses. With a little careful coaxing from Marya, the press blew the whole story wide open."

"Some scandal."  

"I agree; it was a tempest in a teaspoon.  All Marya wanted to do was divert attention from her little operation: ferrying Cuban operatives from Havana through London to Moscow.  She got what she wanted while his lordship had his feet held to the fire by The Times and The Manchester Guardian.  Of course, it was an excellent opportunity for us to take a sneak peek at various British secrets.  The whole thing blew over in a matter of weeks, but the earl has neither forgotten nor forgiven."

"What was the press hoping for? another Profumo scandal?  And where was I?"

"In the hospital."

"Oh."

"The press is very useful–once you've trained them to go where you point them."  He exhaled slowly.  "The earl wants to capture Marya very badly.  What she's got in head...."

"...if she'll give it you...."

"...would upset the balance between us for years to come.  The potential gain outweighs the very great risk."  

Mary rapped him on the knee.  "Boss, this one stinks.  Leave it alone."  She started to repack her briefcase, changed the subject. "Didn't you used to fly B-17s during the war?"

"Paging Dr. Sequitur, paging Dr. Sequitur."  He laughed at her squint of anger.  "Didn't your mother ever tell you that your face would freeze?  Anyway, the answer is yes, I did.  Why?"

"There's an air show not far from here that's got all sorts of vintage aircraft–including a B-17.  Saw it come in for a landing.  Very pretty."

"My favorite plane."  He started rubbing his chin.

Mary executed a perfect pirouette.  "I can see it now.  You're going to steal the B-17, fly it to the States, with Marya Bunitskaya in the bomb bay."  She looked him in the eye.  "Am I right or what?"  

Standing up, Hogan leaned toward her and tapped her cheek.  "You're brilliant, Mary.  Did I tell you that?  You're just brilliant.  Now, scoot before MI5 gets too nervous and comes charging in here.  I don't want to have to tell them we're having an affair. Whatever would Bernie say?"

"About the same thing your wife would: pow, zoom...."

"...straight to the moon."

*****

They wandered around the air show for several hours and had seen just about every plane they remembered from the war.  Newkirk had waxed lyrical about the Lancaster, while Carter had pointed out the C-54 Skymaster he and Hogan had used during the Airlift.  They all had a good laugh when they'd inspected the old Gooney Bird parked on the flight line.  It had vividly reminded them of the 6 nurses and Mad Max, the crazy female pilot, who'd crashed through the front gates of Stalag 13. Eventually, they'd wound their way to the B-17.  

Kinch listened to Hogan question the chunky kid about the heavy bomber: armor stripped? Engine work done? Flyability?  Dismay grew in the Afro-American with every query.  In angry disbelief, he hissed at Newkirk, "He's going to do it.  With or without our help."

"Was there ever any doubt, mate?"

The Englishman's terse reply brought to Kinch's mind the argument that had erupted when Hogan had broached them about helping Marya defect.  With the exception of LeBeau, there'd been outright rejection.  And even the Frenchman hadn't been a supporter of the idea.  Had Hogan taken leave of his senses?  Kinch had found it entirely appropriate for Carter to peer into one of the colonel's ears: Andrew'd claimed he'd not seen daylight.  Hogan's explanation had failed to convince, and they'd all turned him down–flat.  The quiet acceptance of their decision had stung more than Kinch had expected._ Dammit, colonel!  I'd feel a whole lot better about this if I knew why you're really doing this._

Newkirk nudged him.  "And you're thinking about going with him."

"Yeah."  He ran both hands over his hair, stared up at the vintage warbird.  "And I thought my ex-wife was the travel agent for guilt trips."

"That's unfair, mate," the Englishman scolded.  "Besides the colonel 'imself, you're the only one who knows 'ow to fly.  And, blimey, I wouldn't heven think of 'elpin' 'im if you weren't goin' along."

"So what are you and LeBeau up to?"  He looked around for the little Frenchman, forgetting that Louis'd stayed behind to keep Marya company.  

"Louis' going to get 'er dogs, and then we're going to help you two roll out the plane.  Andrew'll be providing 'is usual entertainin' diversion."

"Dogs?"  Kinch did a half-turn in amazement.  "This scheme is getting crazier by the minute.  And do we trust Andrew in his condition?"

Newkirk shrugged, turned out his hands.  "Do we 'ave a choice?"  

Kinch bit back a retort because Carter bounded up to them.  More animated than he'd been the rest of the time, he gushed, "It'll be a piece of pie."

"A piece of cake," they chorused.

"Actually," rushed on the pharmacist, "distracting everybody is going to be easy because of the fireworks scheduled for tomorrow night.  A little repack and a little redirection and there'll be enough chaos to cover the takeoff of a whole squadron."

Kinch and Newkirk glanced at their friend, then at each other.  The sparkling eyes and ear to ear grin made them nervous.

*****

Hogan walked up, clapped them on the shoulders, and with a wicked, puckish smile, remarked, "This'll work even better than I'd thought.  The owner of the place is my old co-pilot, Dave Lisacki.  I've been looking to get even with him for 27 years."

"And just what did he do to you, general?"  Carter rubbed his hands together.

"Let's get a pint, and I'll tell you."  They strolled over to the makeshift pub, and when everybody had settled, Hogan began: "Major David Lisacki was my co-pilot when I commanded the 504th bomb wing, and he had a real penchant for practical jokes.  I was his favorite target. Well, on the return leg of a mission, I provided him yet another opportunity to pull one on me: I literally caught flak in the rump.  Came right through the fuselage, the seat, and into my derriere."

Carter snickered. Newkirk waved him to be silent.

"Go ahead, laugh.  I did, eventually."  He chortled softly.  Slapping his right hip, he added, "Of course, the flak had the last laugh.  The damage it did gave me the arthritis and the hip replacement."

"Jesus," murmured Kinch.

"Anyway, back to the story.  Dave and I managed to land, but I don't remember anything after that except waking up in the hospital, on my belly, with a pin the tail on the donkey over my head."  Hogan's voice turned disgusted.  "Dave had pinned one of my rank eagles right on the ass."

The guys fell over in laughter.  Between guffaws, Newkirk rasped, "That's rich, colonel."

Hogan was indignant.  "I didn't think it was so funny–especially with all the nurses twittering about it.  And the one who kept telling me I had the nicest bottom, oh, she was too much!  But the worst was having to talk about the mission at Stalag 13 with two high-ranking members of Allied High Command.  I can still see their eyes darting to the donkey with the eagle for a tail.  I was so glad I was face down." He took a deep draught of his ale.  "It gave a whole new meaning to blushing butt!"

Newkirk just shook his head and muttered, "I'd've died from the bleedin' embarrassment."

"I can't believe the guy," insisted Carter.  "I'd've killed him."

"Now you guys know why I want to get back at him.  I wasn't able at the time because about a week after I ended up in the hospital, he got put there, too, in much worse condition.  And by the time he recovered–-medically discharged, too–-I'd already gone on to Stalag 13.  I never really had the opportunity to give him his just deserts."

"So, why did you go to Stalag 13, general?"

Hogan suddenly sobered and shut down.  Bypassing the question completely, he said brusquely, "The plane is in excellent condition, and with only the equivalent of 4 men, no armament, and no bombs, I'll have much better fuel consumption."

"4 men, colonel?  'Ow big are these ruddy dogs?"

"They're Russian wolfhounds, and they weigh about 115 pounds a pop.  Don't worry, they only look like they can eat Louis."  Hogan cocked his head thoughtfully, enjoyed the consternation on the Englishman's face.  He took another drink.  "Well, actually, Boris and Natasha might lick him to death." 

"Boris and Natasha?"

"Bullwinkle," replied Kinch with a slight shake of his lowered head.  He raised it, said, "Colonel, make those weight calculations for 5 people."  He held up a hand.  "Save it, Colonel.  Whether you can fly the plane by yourself is irrelevant.  I'm going with you."

*****

Ensconced in LeBeau's room, a bored, caged Marya plunked a chilled bottle of vodka and two vodka glasses on the table."So, my small one, do you know how to drink like a Russian?"  At his negative nod, she poured the clear, potent liquor, handed him a glass, and said, "Na zdorovye."  She threw it back in one fluid motion.

LeBeau followed suit. She filled his glass again.  And again.  He asked, words slurring, "Why are you defecting, Marya?"  

"What would it take for you to give up France?  What would have to be taken from you? Your restaurant? Your wife? Your children?"  She rapidly downed two more glasses; the bottle stood ½ full.

"It wouldn't be my wife.  Anybody who wants her can have her."

He took the bottle, poured himself another glass, and threw it back in perfect Russian style.  He walked slowly, almost shuffled to Marya. 

"I knew you could do it!  To my small one, who now drinks like a Russian!"  They clinked glasses.  They gazed at each other intensely; she stared right though to his soul. "So what's wrong with your wife?  You had to have loved her at some point.  Where did it go?"

"Elle est belle," he murmured. "Mais sa mere...."  He spread his hands wide, shrugged. "Anaïs ne pense pas sans sa mere.  Elle fait laquelle sa mere dit."

Marya blinked.  "So your mother-in-law has come between you and your wife.  Why did you let this happen, if you love her?  It's one thing to lose your love to Death. You can only sorrow over that.  It's one thing to have your child snatched from you, stolen from you  without your knowledge, to be lied to by your government.  You can only exact revenge for that.  It's something else entirely to let your love slip away so that she exists but not for you.  You're a fool, my small one."  She walked towards the window.

"How can you call me that?"  

"Easy.  You've let go.  You've not fought.  I lost all my family in the Great Patriotic War.  I am the sole survivor.  But none of us went quietly into the night.  My sister struggled against the siege of Leningrad; she lived to see liberation.  That had been her goal.  My brother died in the counterattack before Moscow. My Ilya died in Poland also fighting Germans.  We lived until we died and did not let the Germans take anything from us that was ours–our hearts, our loves, our pride, our land!"  Spinning with arms wide flung, she suddenly laughed bitterly.  "That was left for my own government. Do svidanye Rossiya!"

"I don't know what Anaïs wants; she doesn't talk to me anymore.  We stopped talking to each other years ago.  I give myself to the business; it's very successful.  And she's Mme. LeBeau with all the privileges that go with that–courtesy of my success. Of my two children, only Roberte is worth a damn.  She's coming into the business, and she will take over for me.  My son Armand," he roared, "is a wastrel."

She pointed a finger at him. "You loved cooking more than your wife, than your family."  She poured the last of the vodka into their glasses.  "You named your daughter for Hogan, didn't you, my small one?"

"Oui."  Their glasses clinked.  "I've always wondered what he was to you."

She answered honestly, "A friend, an enemy, even a brother."

"A lover?"

"Never."  She bent down and kissed LeBeau passionately.  He returned it.  Marya drank in his spirit. "Take your wife back.  You still love her.  It's in your kiss."  

She watched him stagger back to the bed and pass out.  Mincing over, she sat down next to his prone form.  "Where's a good Russian when you need him?  These western Europeans and Americans are all lightweights."

*****

class=Section5> 

Shaking his head, Newkirk read the note before pinning it to the donkey.  Hogan's bold scrawl read 'IOU one B-17. RE Hogan.'  The Englishman muttered, "Blimey, colonel, remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Don't worry, I will," responded Hogan, kitted out in flightsuit and bomber jacket–stars not eagles on the shoulders.  He glanced at his watch.  This was a precisely timed mission with not much give in the schedule.  "Things set?  Carter's got his stuff ready to go?"

"Well, Kinch's done the preflight check.  We've got 'Er Majesty and 'er stinkin' dogs loaded.  Ruddy miserable animals until we slipped 'em their mickey.  Carter's assured us all of 'ow it's goin' to go off 20 minutes into the show."  He rolled his grey-blue eyes.  "Do you really think we should let 'im?  I mean, 'e was bouncin' off the bleedin' walls this mornin'."

"When he wasn't hyperventilating."  Hogan checked his own worries about Carter. 

It had finally come--the phone call he'd been waiting for.  Right at the end of breakfast, Andrew'd found out he was the grandfather of a healthy baby boy of 8 lbs 2 oz.  Everybody in the hotel had heard that.  Annie was sore and tired, but otherwise all right.  Carter then had started crying and hyperventilating, until they thought he was going to pass out.  Hogan'd had to take the phone away from him and had gotten the rest of the story from Mady.  He'd also promised her they'd take care of Andrew.  

"I've no doubt that Jack's in better shape than his grandfather.  And I assume you acknowledge that he took the cake from me?"

"No question about that, sir.  I didn't expect you to 'ave a bloody 'eart attack from the news."

Hogan clapped Newkirk on the shoulder.  "Let's get this show on the road."

"Let's not," insisted an exquisitely cultivated and mellifluous voice.  

Hogan and Newkirk turned and faced the earl of Suffolk, head of MI5.  The ice-blue eyes above the Walther PPK made even the American nervous.   He whispered to Newkirk, "Go on.  His business is with me."  And with more courage than he felt, he walked toward the earl, cane in hand.

"Quite right, Brigadier," Anglesey sneered.  "I want the woman.  Give her up, and you'll be out of here." He suddenly smiled.  "Of course, I doubt you'd need to fly out of here if it weren't for her.  By the way, this isn't one of you more clever schemes, Hogan.  I saw right through this one."

"Oh, you did, did you?  So is that why you picked up my son for questioning, why his wife couldn't get him released on a writ of habeas corpus?  If you're so knowledgeable, you should have remembered that I never discuss business with either my wife or my children."  Hogan's anger clarified, strengthened his mind. He leaned on his cane, twisting its head slightly.

The eyes blinked.  "You knew. Interesting you'd ignore your only son's plight.  You're not quite the sentimental Catholic Irishman I'd thought you. I'll keep that in mind."  His cultured voice oozed contempt.  "Though I should tell you that your son was very frightened, and he didn't stand up terribly well to questioning. His charming and obviously pregnant wife held her ground much better.  Naturally, the judge saw it my way."

The cane head popped in Hogan's hand, and he gripped it tightly.  "To be scared when there's reason is no crime.  Besides which, neither the Lord Chancellor nor the Home Secretary saw anything other than an abuse of power.  I do hope you enjoy the parliamentary inquiry."  Hogan gave a low, mirthless laugh. "I have my connections, my lord."

Anglesey raised his weapon.  "I want that woman.  She is a threat to the defence of the United Kingdom."

"Maybe so. But she's worth much more to the US.  And, my lord, do remember who runs the Free World.  It's not Britain, however much you might like it to be otherwise."  

The fireworks show erupted from the far side of the airstrip.  The violence of the explosion rocked the hanger; the earl was knocked off balance a moment, but that was sufficient for Hogan who pulled his cane apart.  Lunging forward, he thrust the sword through the aristocrat's upper right shoulder, just under the collarbone.  He whipped the blade out and placed the point at the Englishman's throat.  Surprised eyes looked up at him.  "Don't look at me like that.  You should've known that I'm never unarmed." 

Unbidden, Newkirk emerged from the shadows with rope.  "I'll make sure 'e doesn't 'inder ya further, colonel."

"Thanks.  Turn him over to Bernie when he gets here."  Hogan glanced at his watch.  _Dammit__!_ _I hate cutting things this fine.  _He sheathed his sword in his cane and trotted out to the plane. "Time to get out of here," he muttered as he settled in the cockpit.  

Fortunately, Kinch'd had the engines revved.  Like a bird, the B-17 lifted into the night sky while huge red, white, and blue star bursts exploded behind it.

Hogan caught sight of the dissipating colors as Kinch banked the aircraft.  "That's what I call a send-off."

"It wasn't for us, colonel; it was for Jack.  Happy birthday, kid!"


	3. North America June 1969

North America: June 1969

In the wardroom at the base in Labrador, Kinch stared down at the battery acid that passed for coffee.  Hogan and Colonel Anderson argued quietly, but loudly enough for him to catch snippets. "Rob, this has got to be your craziest stunt yet.  The director's going to have your ass."

"Mike, just refuel the plane, will you?  And then we'll be even."

"Until the next time."  The Air Force colonel walked away, muttering angrily.

Hogan walked over to Kinch, who remarked casually, "That didn't sound good, colonel."  He didn't like the older man's paleness, either.

"I had to call in a lot of favors to get this project off the ground.  If it works, I'm a hero."

"And if not, you're a goat."  He stopped Hogan from grabbing coffee.  "You need sleep, not caffeine."

Hogan ran a hand over his face.  "Yeah.  And I'll get a few hours before we take off at dark for Andrews.  Where I know the director is going to meet us."  He sighed.  "At least, Marya's asleep."

"I thought she'd never shut up.  What was all that nonsense she was spewing?  And frankly," he slammed his mug down, sloshing coffee over his hand, "why the hell did you do this?"

Hogan softly replied, "Marya wants revenge.  Her only child was literally stolen from her to keep her an active field agent.  It might not have been so bad if she hadn't found out the lie and the girl.  It's a whole host of 'might've beens'.  I thought we'd been through this."  

_I still don't buy it. _ Kinch's eyes dropped to his shoes; he couldn't look his former CO in the face.  He didn't want him to see the disbelief, so he abruptly changed topics.  "Thank you for your efforts to find Henry."

"Not at all," Hogan straightened, waved it off.  "Saves me from working on Chris.  A brigadier general is an object of some importance.  If I go poking around, it'll flag somebody's attention."

"And a private is a nobody."

"In this case, a good thing." 

A buck sergeant walked in.  "Excuse me, sir, but which one of you is John Steed?"

Hogan snickered.  "That would be me, sergeant."  Turning back to Kinch, he added, "My secretary's a little too tuned into TV." 

*****

An airman stiff-armed him the phone.  Mary Kaiser's voice started yammering in his ear.  "Hello, Mary," he interrupted.

"Congratulations!  That cane is a swordstick."

"You didn't call transatlantic on a secure line just to tell me that.  Who's upset I perforated the earl?"

"You damned near killed him.  Bled like a stuck pig.  Of course, that's what he is.  Anyway, who's upset? Shall we start with the prime minister? And half the British government?  Sir James has been arguing that His Liplessness abused his authority by picking up your son, but outside of the Lord Chancellor and the Home Secretary, he's getting no support."

"I didn't think he would be."

"Expect a formal complaint from the British government, which will, of course, make it to the director's office.  In short, Boss, your ass is in a sling."

"No, sweetie, it's grass, and the director's the lawnmower."

"Whatever.  Shall I put in the paperwork for your retirement?  Will 31 December work?  It'll take that long to clear up the office."

He coughed slightly.  "Looking for a new boss, are we?"

"No. I'm having a baby and don't want you to have a new secretary.  I'd be insanely jealous." He gagged and choked.  "Besides, I want to limit your opportunities for stupid stunts like this one.  Your godchild will appreciate it."

Thunderstruck, Hogan managed, "I'll be honored to be your child's godfather.  I can only hope he or she takes after Bernie.  Youare going to make an honest man out of that Iowa farmboy you've corrupted, aren't you?"

"You're so Catholic, Boss."

Hogan ignored the teasing.  "When are you due?"

"20 December.  Your birthday."

He spluttered, "No, no, no you don't.  Don't you dare!"

"Anyway, since you sliced the earl, the KGB's come out of the woodwork.  Expect trouble from them.  Haven't the foggiest on how, though.  Bye, Boss."  Click.

"Great, just great."  Hogan sat down hard, his legs rubbery.  _I'm going to kill her.  What am I thinking?  I can't do that.  She's an expectant mother.  Mary--married with children?   Mother of God!  Who'd've thought it?  She is NOT going to name that poor child after me.  So help me God._  He cradled his head in hands.

"Are you all right, colonel?"

He looked into his co-pilot's concerned face.  "Why do we let women into our lives?"

"Good question."  Kinch hummed than sang softly, "'Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'/Oh, what a wonderful world it would be/If all the women/Were transported far across the northern sea.'"[1]

"I don't think I'd go that far."  He sobered. "I'm a dead man.  Forget the prime minister.  Forget the KGB.  Forget the director."  He looked wildly at Kinch.  "Mary's called Suzanne."

"Oh, Christ, colonel."

*****

A well-built young man, blond, about 30, tapped his too large teeth with a cheap, plastic ballpoint.  The tiny office remained shrouded in darkness.  The tapping continued until he threw the pen across the room in frustration.  He shoved the chair back from the desk; the screech resounded in the spartan room.  He started talking to himself, thinking with his mouth open.  "Finally, we locate the insufferable witch," he looked at his watch, "and she's in a B-17 already in Labrador.  This is ridiculous!"  He started pacing back and forth in front of his desk.  "What am I going to do?  I can't go shooting down the airplane–MIGs don't have that kind of range, not from Cuba anyway–and besides it would be too damned obvious.  What!  What!"  He slammed his hand down on the solid oak desk.

Shaking his now sore left hand, he reached for his tea, took a sip and spat it out.  Gone cold.  In a fit of pique, he threw the glass against the wall.  He felt gratified by the smash and shatter.  He ran his hand through his hair.  "Well, Yevgeny Stepanovich, you're just going to have to play this by ear, as the Americans say.  Though dealing with that lunatic Robert Hogan...."  His voice softened, turned wistful even. "That's it!  If that fruitcake," he frowned at himself, for he was going to have watch the Americanisms, "wants to pretend it's 1945, well, we can do that, too!"

He scurried around the desk, picked up his phone.  "Prevyet, Pyotr," he began.

*****

The dawn's deep reds and purples lightened as the B-17 made slow progress down the eastern seaboard of the United States.  Inside the plane, Hogan checked the instrument panel and then his watch.  2.5 hours out of Andrews.  _I can't wait to land this bird.  I will not be happy until Marya's safely in the Company's hands_.  Scanning the horizon–-sky now orangey and pinkish, ocean a forbidding dark blue-green–-he sighed, sighting nothing.  _Let's hope it stays that way._

He glanced over to his co-pilot and met Kinch's eyes.  "Checking up on me?"

"Actually, yes.  I'm not happy with those circles under your eyes.  Or that deep, hacking cough you've suddenly developed."

"You're no prize for beauty, either."

"Well, it's been a long time since I've flown long distance with little sleep between legs. By the way, how did you keep up your flying time?  Andrew'd said you'd been grounded."

"The flight surgeon officially grounded me, but it had nothing to do with eyesight and everything to do with my job."  He exhaled softly.  "I took up flying again after Miri died."  He stared out the window.  The sky was a beautiful azure.

"What is this Russian woman to you?  She's given you nothing but trouble over the last 25 years and is in no small measure responsible for your first wife's death."  

Hogan gave him a hard, baleful stare.  "Where did that come from?" 

"Peter filled us in about what'd happened.  So we wouldn't ask any silly questions."

"So that's why the silence about Miri."  He refused to talk about that, switched to an equally unpalatable subject. "I'm surprised you guys didn't ask about Hilda."

"Peter said she'd died in a bombing raid on Dusseldorf."

"I wish.  It would've been better than what actually happened.  I shot her."

"I assume you had a reason."

"Of course he had a reason, dahling.  And if he hadn't shot her, I would have."  Both men craned around to see Marya crouched precariously behind them, one hand on each pilot's seat.  "She'd followed Hogan...."

"...to confront me about Miri...."

"...and overheard an entire mission plan.  She walked in and threatened to turn us all over to the Gestapo.  I do not understand what she expected."

Hogan continued, "It was too important a mission for her to blow, and it would've taken you guys out as well.  I try to avoid others paying for my mistakes."  His voice was both hard and regretful.  He gave a quick scan of the skies and his watch.  2 hours.

"And to answer your question, he's doing this to gain revenge on those who killed the Snow Queen.  The enemy of my enemy is my ally."  

Staring out the window, shocked by the truth of the assessment, Hogan ignored Marya's usual epithet for Miri.  "And right now, Kinch, the KGB is our mutual enemy.  Getting her safely to Washington, getting her to talk...."

"...which I'll do, dahling...."

"...will set the KGB back ten years.  The number of destroyed projects and dead agents will be high."  Unsettled by Marya's acumen, Hogan further felt uneasy at the depth of his own hatred.  _I need to retire. I've been at this too damned long.  What was it you said, Miri?  You couldn't do this any longer?  I think I've  hit that wall._  A chill breath blew across his shoulders.

"You look as sick as I feel, colonel."

Pretending not to feel Kinch's eyes boring through him, Hogan shared a quick, sharp glance with Marya.  "At least we know it's time to quit."  She nodded vigorously.   

A burst of .50 calibre machine gunfire got their attention.

"What the hell was that?" cried Kinch.

"Feels like machine gun fire to me."  Hogan spotted the P-51. "What the hell is it doing....Oh, God!" He banked the aircraft sharply. Marya'd already disappeared to her spot at the navigator's station.  "The KGB sent us a welcoming committee."

"How the hell did they find us, colonel?  The number of people who knew about this was small."

class=Section2> 

"Not small enough.  But the only place the leak could be is the director's office.  I had Mary call him well after we left England."  Bullets ripped through the fuselage.  "Dave's going to kill me.  He's just not going to believe those holes are pigeon peckings."

"Forget Dave!" Kinch yelped.  The bomber rolled sharply downward, changed course, headed out to sea.  He took in the course change.  "What are you up to, colonel?"

"What our overzealous Soviet friend may not know is that the _USS Enterprise _and her carrier group are returning to Norfolk, Virginia from NATO exercises in the Med.  A dogfight over the carrier group's airspace will definitely attract Admiral Thomason's attention."

"And then, what part of short chase does our friend not understand?"  Kinch swallowed nervously.  P-51 Mustangs were much faster than B-17s.  "If that crazy Ivan keeps it up"_–-_another burst of gunfire blew out the windows, glass cascading into his lap_–-"_he'll eventually blow us out of the sky_._"  The bomber took a nose dive.  "You aren't going to put this baby on the water?"

"Why not?  Cutie pie back there isn't quite the pilot he thinks he is.  Nor does he really understand the punishment a B-17 can take.  He's going to have practically shred this bird before I can't land her."  

Hogan concentrated on dodging the swooping fighter.  Bullets flew everywhere, puncturing the wings, the tail.  Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their upper lips. 

The carrier group appeared on the horizon.  Another spray of gunfire, a few more holes.  The Russian didn't seem concerned about the flotilla before him.  Hogan pulled up slightly, pushed the throttle forward, and roared over the deck of the _Enterprise__._  They could hear the shouts of the surprised and angry swabbies, some of whom had had to dive for cover.  The P-51 followed suit.   Hogan pulled the bomber higher into the air, circled around the carrier.  The Mustang continued to come on.  

Suddenly, the radio in the bomber crackled.  "Unidentified B-17, who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

With remarkable nonchalance, Hogan replied, "This is Robert E. Hogan; I'm running a low-profile exfiltration operation.  Can you get this Soviet-flown P-51 off my ass, _Enterprise_?"  He shrugged at Kinch's surprise.  _The KGB already knows what we're doing here; we're not giving away any state secrets at this point._

"Already scrambled."  2 F4 Phantoms suddenly joined them.  The P-51 refused to disengage and fired on one of the Phantoms.  It put a missile into the vintage fighter–-which disappeared in a large fireball.  "Was that good enough for you, Rob?  When the hell are you going to quit this cloak and dagger crap?"

"Sorry to spill your coffee, Wally.  Thanks for the assist.  And would you believe the end of the year?"

"Promises, promises.  Now, will you get the hell outta my airspace?"

"Yes, sir.  And thank you, sir."  Hogan saw Kinch's raised eyebrow.  "I was only a 1 star general; he is a 3 star admiral.  Be nice, especially over his airspace."

"Yeah, I'd say he has you over a barrel."

They flew on in silence for several minutes before Hogan muttered, "I wonder what other little surprises the KGB has got for us.  They did rather tip their hand."  At the sound of a spluttering engine, he looked out to see smoke billowing from the number 4 engine.  "This is just wonderful. We're going to limp into Andrews–at best."

*****

Hogan handed Marya a cup of tea in the drab wardroom at Andrews Air Force Base.  With a raised eyebrow, she took it, noticed the Lipton tag on the teabag.  He shrugged, not caring about the subtleties of tea.  The fine tremors of her hands hadn't escaped him.  They reflected the air attack and the difficult landing.  He rubbed his arms anxiously. The B-17 was in bad shape, and it had been a long time since he'd had to land anything that shot up.  

Locking eyes with her, he thought: _Did you somehow not think they'd try to knock you off?  Get real, Masha, 'cause they're gonna do it again.  Real soon._  

His eyes scanned the room.  Burly air police guarded the door.  Boris and Natasha lay in their crates, the tranquilizer just wearing off.  Exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Kinch slumped on the sofa.   Hogan sighed: _  Any landing you walk away from is a good one, Kinch._  He  glanced at his watch.  Never one to enjoy waiting, even though he could do it well, he felt very tense, almost ready to snap in two.

The door opened, and the director of central intelligence marched in.  Every aspect of his wiry, angular frame radiated a controlled rage.  Hogan simply raised an eyebrow at the man.  Marya moved closer to him, and to comfort her, he put an arm around her waist.  Seemingly accepting the consolation, she placed a hand over his.  

The director stopped in front of Hogan, his foot tapping out his anger.  "Congratulations, Hogan.  This stunt has got to cap your already bizarre career."  The foot thumped even faster.

Hogan's lips quirked into a sardonic grin.  "You're right.  It is quite the end to an unusual career.  But one should go out at the top."  Marya's fingers were tapping rhythmically on the back of his hand.  It took a few seconds for his brain to register.  It was Morse code, but rusty as he was, he couldn't read it. _What is she trying to tell me? _ 

The director's openly puzzled expression drew his attention back.  "If a defecting station chief isn't cause enough to celebrate, you should know I'm planning on retiring, director, at the end of the year.   The paperwork is already in process."  

The director looked like someone had struck him.  "Are you serious?"

"Given the number of violations of regulations, including two marriages to foreign nationals and this absolutely juvenile exfiltration, cashiering would be too good for him.  I can't imagine, sir, you'd even entertain the notion of allowing him to retire unscathed." Lena Engle, a tall, bulky Polish-American woman and the director's executive secretary, growled.  She snapped her fingers, "And let's not forget the creation of an international incident--you nearly killed the head of MI5."

"Ah, Lena, how nice to see you.  Glad to know you haven't changed in the slightest."  

Marya's fingers suddenly became painful on the back of his hand.  Still, he didn't understand.  He tried moving his hand, but Marya kept it in a vice grip.  

Lena's sidestep attracted his attention.  Hogan watched her with narrowed eyes. He'd always disliked her; aside from the fact she'd never been civil to him, she'd always seemed too much the bean-counter.  

"I'm surprised you're not complaining about my commandeering that B-17 and sticking you with the repair costs."

"If she doesn't, I certainly will, Hogan."  The director's wrath returned full force. "Who the hell do you think you are?  What hell makes you sacrosanct?  Do you think you're still fighting World War II?  Because I can assure you you're not."   

"Actually, _sir_, you're wrong.  All the Cold War is and has been is an extension of World War II. If you think the combat stopped in 1945, I'm sorry to disillusion you.  Only the enemy and the weapons have changed. And no matter what esoteric name you hang on it, it's still all about great power politics and controlling satellites.  The nukes are the only things that keep us from killing each other." He sounded tired and disgusted.

A young, blond agent stepped slightly to the side of him.  Marya's gripped Hogan's so fiercely he thought she'd break it.  The Morse message finally registered.  _Him, him, him._  Hogan twigged to its meaning.  His eyes caught the unbuttoning of a jacket. Face contorting in apparent pain, he suddenly clutched his chest over his heart and started gasping and panting.  Leaning to the left, his knees began to give.  The director, shocked almost white, reached to grab him. Kinch jumped up from the sofa, took two giant steps forward.  Avoiding the director, Hogan collapsed into Marya, taking her to the floor.  

Pistol in hand, the blond man shoved Lena out of the way and squeezed the trigger.   As people scattered, took cover, the air police jumped forward, .45s drawn, and peppered the assailant.  His riddled body hit the floor.

Kinch rolled Hogan's limp form off Marya.  "Get an ambulance!  He's had a heart attack!"

"Bozhe moi," Marya breathed as she knelt by his body.  Tears slipped down her cheeks.

*****

Snorting in a mixture of boredom, frustration, and anger, Hogan jammed his hands into his hospital bathrobe and continued to pace around his room.  Everything after the seeming heart attack remained a bit of a blur. But his diversion had worked, had saved Marya, and she was now in the hands of an expert crossover team.  The assailant, Yevgeny Stepanovich Petrenko, had missed, the shot having ricocheted off the floor into the wall.  Unfortunately, the ploy had incarcerated him in the hospital.  The ambulance crew had seen immediately there was nothing wrong with his heart, and while Hogan had tried to explain, his doctor–-and everybody he'd scared out of their wits, especially Kinch and Marya–-had insisted on a complete examination.  Retribution he figured. One look at Kinch's angry expression had convinced Hogan to mind his manners; he hadn't been too sure the former Golden Gloves champion wouldn't have slugged him.  It hadn't stopped Marya.   His face still stung from where she'd slapped him; his ears still rung from the loud Russian bawling out she'd given him. She'd then been led away.  Not even so much as a quick hug.__

Feeling like a caged tiger, he snarled, "Don't yell at me, director.  With every port and airfield blanketed by both the KGB and MI5, the B-17 was a godsend.  The airshow ended that night, and I simply filed Dave Lisacki's own flight plan 12 hours early.  It was the lowest profile means of extraction possible.  I followed that flight plan, the standard one we flew during the war, until that P-51 showed up.  And it wouldn't have shown up if Petrenko hadn't been a mole in your office."  Hogan turned to the window in disgust.  "I assume the plane will be fixed?"

"Oh, the plane'll be fixed and returned to its rightful owner with a carefully worded letter of national thanks."  The director took a deep drag on his cigarette.  He took another pull before stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray.  "Enjoying this, Hogan?". 

"Look, the KGB went to great lengths to kill Marya.  They were willing to run the risk of war and were willing to expose one of their most highly placed moles to stop her.  It's only her great value that's going to save your ass with the President, if not Congress."  Turning to face the director, he caught the flinch before the man lit up again.  "And as to why I sliced the earl, he picked up my son for questioning.  His goons got a little carried away."  His voice was stony, unforgiving.  

"Sorry about Patrick's bruises, but DORA[2] can be a nasty piece of work."

"Especially when the earl wants to be a bastard," Hogan hissed.  Patrick had gotten more than bruises.

"That's how he gets the KGB."  The man blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'm not going to be sorry to see you go, Hogan.  You've been a goddamned maverick from day one.  You have violated just about every rule in the book--including your two marriages to foreign nationals, your foreign national children, and your being in situ for too damned long--and you've gotten away with it.  You do have the luck of the stinking Irish, but no more.  The era of Wild Bill Donovan is long since past.  You're a dinosaur, Hogan, and we don't need you any more."  He crushed out the cigarette and strode for the door. 

"And I don't need you anymore, either.  Vietnam has sunk everybody's morale."  The director abruptly halted, door half opened.  "It's not a question of winning.  It's a question of how badly are we going to lose."  He'd read the reports, too.

"Go to hell, Hogan."  The director bolted, almost bowling over Suzanne.

"After you."

Suzanne asked, "Who was that, Robert?"

"Just my ex-boss."  He peered over the half-eyes perched on his nose.  The strain showed in her drawn, pale face and chewed lips.  _Lena__, I'm going to have your head for this.  Pushing a mop in __Pakistan__ will be too good for you._ _The only good thing is that Mary beat you to Patrick and Renate._ "Suzanne...."

"You're looking awfully well, Robert."  Her voice was flat.

He coughed slightly, asked, "Would it help to know I have bronchitis?"  He gave her his most disarming smile.  No response.  _Oh, boy.  This is going to cost me at least a dozen red roses and dinner at __Washington__'s best restaurant._ He tried again.  "Suzanne...."

"Sacre bleu, Robert!  Qu'est qui se passe?  Pourquoi tu ais le fait?"  She moved away, rejecting his open arms, stopping his advance.  "Pourquoi, Robert?  J'ai eu une peur bleue," she wailed, throwing up her hands.  Tears turned her cheeks a mottled red.

"Suzanne, I took this mission as a personal favor.  It was also a mission of vital national interest."  He refused to discuss his baser motives.  "The faked heart attack saved a life and the mission."

"Je le déteste!  Je le déteste!"

Watching her pace with her arms wrapped around her chest ripped at Hogan's heart.  Her words only salted the wound.  "Ma belle, c'est le fin."  His French sounded terrible in his own ears.  "I quit.  I'm retiring at the end of the year.  As of 1 January 1970, you'll have a completely ordinary husband."  

She stopped pacing, glared at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes.  "Tu ne fais pas pour moi."

He sighed in dejection.  "No, Suzanne, I'm not doing it for you. This was one of those decisions I had to make for myself.  You and the whole family will benefit from it, but I'm retiring because I've hit the wall.  I can't and don't want to do this anymore.  And," he sighed again, "in many respects, the director is right: I am a dinosaur. So all the way around it's time to quit."

"Robert, I came down here with the expectation that you were dying.  I was so terrified you would pass away before I got here...before I could tell you I love you."  She started to sob.  "I couldn't sleep because I was so worried I wouldn't get the chance to say good-bye.  I didn't...don't want to be your widow.  And then I find this.  It was all a performance.  Do you have any idea how I feel?"

_Have you heard a word I've said?  Do you know how much of a heel I feel like?  Hurting you, keeping secrets from you isn't my idea of fun, either! _ With effort, he cast his irritation aside.  Her tear-ravaged face projected open pain.  He swiftly moved to her, took her in his arms despite her struggles.  Her hands pummeled his chest before sliding around to his back, pulling him closer.  She bawled uncontrollably for a few minutes against his shoulder, thoroughly soaking it.  The storm blew itself out, fell off to a hiccup.  

She pulled away from him, but he didn't let her go.  Gazing upward at him, she gulped a bit before asking, "You promise this will be the last time?"

He nodded his head vigorously.  "I promise, Suzanne."  She seemed to droop, and he guided her to the bed.  He reached up and unzipped the back of her dress.  "Let me get you out of this dress and into bed."

"Robert!"

He rolled his eyes.  "Suzanne, you're mad enough at me as it is.  If I let you sleep in your dress, and it gets all messed up, you'll be madder still.  Sorry, I'm not that brave."  He slipped the linen sheath from her shoulders, laid it on the back of the chair.  "I'll let you sleep in your slip and stockings, but not your dress." He kissed her and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.  Perching on the side of the bed, he gently played with her hair until she relaxed and fell asleep.

Without warning, the door opened.  Hogan watched his wife carefully.  She stirred only slightly.  "Whoever you are, go away," he growled softly.

"General, you should be in bed." The woman took in the bed. "But you can't do that.  Who is she?"

"My wife, doctor."  Hogan faced his on-scene physician, Major Ruth Spenser, a short, athletic Afro-American doctor, approximately 45 years old. "So, when are you going to let me out of here?"

"General, your reputation for being a difficult patient preceeds you...."

"Kinch told you."  Hogan hadn't missed the divorcé's interest in the lady.  "Go gently with James Kinchloe.  Recent years have not been kind."  Divorce and a son MIA weren't the only things.  Civil rights activism had added official and unofficial harassment to his woes.  Lena Engle had waved the files–-ones he'd already read--under his nose this morning.

"My private life is not up for discussion."  Her short, straight hair with its light dusting of gray bounced slightly.

"Good.  You're interested."  He smiled broadly.  Taking up a pen and paper, he wrote down Kinch's address and phone number; he gave her the slip of paper.  "Don't lose this."

"You're incorrigible."

His wicked smile widened.  "Yeah.  Always have been.  Now, I suspect you want me to be a good boy and lie down and rest." 

"That would be good for openers.  Then take your medication to clear up that bronchitis."  

A hacking cough erupted from his chest, emphasizing her point.  Obediently, he hopped up on the bed, gently moved Suzanne to the side, and joined her under the covers.  "Grandchildren are marvelous.  They share everything with you–-including their illnesses."

Major Spenser flicked an eyebrow with a well-manicured nail.  "Whatever, general.  I'd like to know how your physician deals with you," she muttered as she went to the door.

"Dick manages."  Hogan beamed mischief at her.  Only a grunt reached his ears as he watched her leave.  Leaning back against a pillow, he contemplated the ceiling while enjoying Suzanne's warmth beside him.

*****

Smothering a cough, Hogan took back the plane tickets, received the baggage tags.  Suzanne stood next to him, cradling her two dozen red roses.  Looking over his wife's head, he caught sight of James Kinchloe walking up to the counter.  Instead of following his wife toward the coffee shop, Hogan simply moved to one side, waited for Kinch, and rolled his eyes at the bemused expression.  

Hoping to head off commentary, he asked coyly, "Why aren't you staying in DC?  Major Spenser seemed more than reason enough."

Kinch handed the clerk his ticket and bag and whispered, "Two dozen, colonel?"

"Yeah, and the most expensive meal I've ever paid for in Washington, DC."  He grimaced, contemplated the hole in his wallet.  "Burned up almost $300."

"Damn Sam!  That hurt!"

"No kidding."  He flicked a glance at Suzanne, who'd finally realized that he wasn't with her.  She started back toward him; he shared a conspiratorial moment with his co-pilot.  "But the worst was a full day's shopping expedition.  No African big game hunter has anything on Suzanne."

"Mais, cheri, you seemed to enjoy the time you spent in the lingerie shop.  You were very interested, very attentive."  

Suzanne sidled up to her husband, curled her hand inside his elbow.  She gave him a sidelong glance that promised him no end of misery.

"Yeah, the Caribbean blue and cream lace teddy would have looked spectacular on you.  Pity you wouldn't try it on."

Finally, she spluttered, "Oh...oh...whatever am I going to do with you, Robert?"

"Love me."

She threw up a hand.  "J'y renounce.  Pardonnez moi, monsieur mais je vais au café."

She got about two or three steps away when Hogan dodged to one side, peered around Kinch's shoulder.  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  I don't believe it!"  Concerned, Suzanne was immediately back at his elbow.

Marya, russet hair shorn to a gamine cut and wearing a mod, deep purple trapeze dress, sauntered up to them.  She was immediately trailed by a bewildered middle-aged man who kept scanning the area.  Puckering her lips lightly, Marya gave Suzanne a couple of subtle chin and eyebrow lifts.  Hogan heard his wife suck in her breath.

With a low-lidded expression, the Russian said to the Frenchwoman, "Don't worry, Madame Curie, I'm not going to steal your husband."  

Hogan spoke directly to her handler.  "What do you think you're playing at, Brent?  This woman should be under wraps.  Where the hell is your sense of responsibility?  Your training?  God, if you lose her now, it'll be a gigantic disaster–-from which your career would never recover."

Brent Ryle absorbed the tongue-lashing without comment.  The tall man–he was 6'5"–just shrugged and cast a meaningful glance at Marya.

Hogan shook his head.  "You're going to be in bed with her before you know what hit you."

"He's mahvelous, dahling," Marya purred.

"You know, I'm not going to miss this nonsense," Hogan remarked, staring at his feet, rubbing his forehead.

Marya moved to within inches of Hogan.  "But I will miss you, dahling.  I had to see you once more, to say goodbye.  Robert Kyrilivich, you're a girl's best enemy."  She wrapped her arms tightly around him, giving him a huge hug before kissing each cheek.  There was the barest hint of tears in her eyes.  "I doubt that we'll ever see each other again, so I want you to have a memento of me."  She pressed a gold-framed icon into his hand.  "My grandmother gave me this when I was a child, for my name day.  It would've been Sophia's, had she been mine.  You understand, so I want you to have it.  Do svidanye, Robert Kyrilivich."  She stepped back against Ryle, who took her upper arm and led her away.

To her retreating back, he murmured, "Do svidanye, Masha."  He sniffed, more moved than he was willing to admit.  He studied the icon, recognized the Blessed Virgin Mary.  _Of course, Masha, your patron saint._  He walked toward an empty row of seats, stared down the long concourse before glancing back at the icon.  A few chuckles bubbled up.

"Colonel?" 

"Robert?"

Kinch and Suzanne Hogan looked at each other as the chuckling  escalated to outright raucous laughter that startled passers-by.  For Hogan, their confused faces only added to the hilarity. He practically doubled over with laughter, not noticing when the tears came.

*****

Kinch drained his beer, finished with his story.  "The P-51 really ripped us up.  One engine cut out; we had to shut its opposite off for balance.  That made life fun.  Then, after we landed, I saw just how shot up we were–-the tail was almost hanging off."

"That's an exaggeration, but I will concede it looked a lot like baby Swiss.   But still, it wasn't as bad as the previous B-17 I'd had to land.    I hit the runway a little too hard, and the tail actually fell off.."  To the raised eyebrow, Hogan patted Kinch's arm.  "You've just become a nervous flyer.  We hit a pocket of turbulence on our way back, and he nearly freaked out."

"How would you know?  You slept through the whole flight." Disgusted, he looked to the guys for support.  They were all gathered at a back table at the Major's Folly.  "His head pillowed on his wife's shoulder."

Newkirk smirked, but Carter cried petulantly, "And what's wrong with that?"

A mischievous grin curled Hogan's mouth.  "He'll change his tune after a few dates with Major Spenser.  He'll find how pleasant it is."

The dark eyes rolled until the whites showed.  "Thanks a lot, colonel.  And did your back appreciate the corkscrew you turned it into?"  Hogan shrugged sheepishly, and Kinch added, "I rest my case."

Louis LeBeau demanded, "Is she safe? Is she happy?"

Leaning back in his chair, Newkirk muttered, "You've no idea 'ow glad I am that owld witch is in the States.  Now, will ya just get over 'er?"

"Cochon," LeBeau spat.

Hogan ended the fight.  "She's as safe as she can be.  Happy is another matter.  I don't think Marya can ever be happy."

"That's unfair, mon colonel."  LeBeau got upturned hands as a response.  "Well, I wish her happiness, and I'm very glad she got away."  He raised his glass and toasted in rather slurred French.

"I didn't say I didn't wish her well.  And in some respects, she'll do very well in the US."  _Pop culture she'll eat up.  Being on the other side of the Cold War is another matter.  I don't see you taking retirement in stride, Masha.  You liked to play games too much._

Carter dragged his attention back to the present.  "You know, general, we've been talking about how we all got to Stalag 13.  It's your turn."

Hogan's eyes focused on the empty tulip glass between his hands.  He then looked up, meeting the earnest blue eyes.  _No way of dodging it this time, Rob. _He answered truthfully, bluntly.  "I went to Stalag 13 for three reasons: combat fatigue, the death of my fiancée, and the death of my cousin."

"Blimey," moaned Newkirk softly.

Hogan went on, surprising himself more than his men.  "I'd been seconded to the RAF in January 1940, and once the phoney war ended, I began flying bombing runs, originally as an observer, more often as a co-pilot.  By the time I returned to the Army Air Corps, I was already tired of flying, but it's how I met Robbie and through him, his sister Barbara."  

He slumped a little, remembering his tempestuous, headstrong fiancée.  "We got engaged in October 1941 and were supposed to get married in April 1942, but she broke her neck in a riding accident about a month before the wedding. But what really sent me off, though, was my cousin Tommy's death."

"Mon colonel...." breathed LeBeau, face full of compassion.  The rest of the guys had pulled closer to the table.  Kinch's hand lightly touched Hogan's elbow.

Steepling his hand, rubbing his nose with his index fingers, Hogan harrumphed a couple of times before continuing.  "Tommy O'Reilly was my cousin on my mother's side.  Grandfather and his sons didn't emigrate to the States, and while they were Nationalists, they all understood that if Britain fell, Ireland was next.  So, all the cousins who could joined up.  Tommy flew with the RAF. That's how I met up with him." He stopped, composed himself.  "Tommy was shot down over Germany in early 42, got tossed into a POW camp, and got killed trying to escape.  I found that out from a buddy of his who made it back.  I took the decision to go to Stalag 13 during his requiem."

"Yikes, general."  

"Yeah.  Grandfather'd said that anybody who died fighting against Hitler died on the side of the angels, and while I didn't and don't disagree with that, I was determined nobody else was going to buy it like Tommy.  Not if I could help it."  He took a deep draught of the full pint of Guinness Newkirk had placed in front of him.  

"You were a man with a mission, colonel," remarked Kinch quietly.   He lifted his glass.  "To our mission.  We did a damned fine job."  They all klinked glasses.

"And to all those who died on the side of the angels.  Their sacrifice was not in vain," added Hogan in a shakey voice.

"Amen, guv'nor."  

They all touched glasses again.

  


* * *

            [1] The woman's version is "Rachel, Rachel, I've been thinkin'".

            [2]Defence of the Realm Act.


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue

London, England: December 1969

Wineglass in hand, Hogan followed his wife into the study.  "Ah, Patrick and Penny out for the evening."

Suzanne turned around abruptly, forcing her husband to a quick, nose-to-nose stop.  "And they took Miriam.  Where did they go?"  She turned her face upward.

He couldn't resist kissing her.  Their lips lingered a long moment before he broke off and answered, "They're having dinner with Robbie in his new home.  I think he's finally getting over the shock of being a grandfather.  And the presence of the kids and the baby go a long way to alleviating his loneliness." Hogan shook his head.  "I can imagine how lonely he is, how lost he is.  A divorce is too much like a death. Only not quite.  It's sort of limbo.  But after 27 years....What the hell was Judith thinking?"

"It takes two to make a marriage, Robert.  I suspect they actually drifted apart years ago."  _As Honoré and I had before he died._  Seeking closeness, she stepped up and laid her cheek on his shoulder.

He put his wineglass on the mantle and wrapped her in his arms.  "You're right, ma belle.  And this has been so hard on Penny.  She doesn't understand why her marriage and her baby made her parents split up. I suspect she's blaming herself." 

"Reminders of better times?  Something more painful perhaps?  Is Penny their only child?"  She snuggled closer, opened a few buttons of his shirt beneath the scarlet cardigan.  Sliding her hand in, she rubbed his chest.

"No," he breathed. "They had a son, Alec.  He died at 6 from polio."

Her hand stopped, and Suzanne lifted her head, stared at him with horrified eyes.  "Mon Dieu, Robert!  How awful!" She was glad his arms tightened around her.

"Robbie was devastated. Judith just seemed to deal calmly with it."  He kissed her temple.

"She didn't grieve; she ignored it."

"Yeah," he replied softly.  

He tipped her face up, kissed her with passion, tasted the rich burgundy wine on her lips, felt her softness.  He broke the kiss before leading her to the red velvet sofa.  Holding her in his lap, he kissed the tip of her nose then her lips.  Robbie and Judith's tragedies receded in the face of their own marital desires.

*****

At the front door, Brigadier General Christopher Hogan, USAF, Ret., held his sleepy, almost 5 year old daughter, Sinéad.  He glanced over to his wife Enya.  Her pale face was strained.  Sinéad's identical twin sister, Siobhan, snuffled at her mother's neck.   They'd just arrived from Dublin, from visiting Enya's family.

"The girls are ready for bed, Chris."

"So are you, precious."  He felt rewarded by her smile.  After nearly 22 years, they were still a highly affectionate, highly passionate couple.  Even more so since his return from Vietnam and a POW camp.  "At least, Patrick gave us the key.  We won't have to wait for Rob to open the door."

"I can't believe how suggestive Patrick was."

"I can.  He's Rob's son, after all."

Enya glanced at her husband. He grinned at her before quietly opening the door.  She went ahead, and he followed her straight up the stairs, whispering, "What I can't believe is that Rob's totally unaware of our coming for Christmas.  I want to know how Patrick slipped this past his old man."

Stopping dead, Enya looked back at Chris.  "Suzanne."  She started up again, headed right into the spare bedroom, which was already made up for them.

"You're right."  He laid his daughter on a cot.  "I'll go get the luggage."  He headed back down the stairs.

*****

On the red velvet sofa, lying in her husband's arms, Suzanne gazed into his deep brown eyes.  Her right hand lightly caressed his cheek before pulling his head down.  Their lips met; hers parted willingly under the pressure of his.  Her left hand finished opening his shirt.  They reluctantly broke the kiss, and he slid beside her, pulled her close against his bare chest.  She caught the faint, spicy tang of his aftershave.  They kissed hungrily.

Shifting her slightly beneath him, he rested his weight on hip and elbow.  A hand stroked her hair.  He bent forward to nuzzle her ear and neck.  Hearing her soft moans, her deepening breathing, he planted tiny kisses along her neck until he reached the hollow of her throat.  At that point, she pulled him back to an intense kiss.  With his lips lingering on hers, he swiftly unbuttoned her silk blouse and deftly unhooked her demi-bra.  His left hand cupped, kneaded her right breast; the nipple tautened between his fingers.

Like fire, desire ran through her, and she slid beneath him.  She ran her fingers through his hair, caressed his ears while he kissed and nibbled each breast alternatively.  Her hips began to undulate gently. Her husband came back to her lips for another passionate kiss. Her left hand popped the button on his waistband, unzipped his fly, and reached to fondle him.  His slight panting and beginning thrusts drove her excitement onward.

*****

Chris set the luggage in the hallway, rested a moment.  _I doubt Dr. Ferguson would approve of this so soon after releasing me._  _And certainly not on a new prosthesis._  His leg throbbed, and he decided he needed help.  _Let me go find Rob.  Between the two of us, we can get this done._  He silently limped into the study, looking for his brother.  It took him a moment to register the action on the sofa; it left him stunned and a little 

class=Section2> 

embarrassed for a moment before amusement took over.  It brought back so many memories.  

A particularly passionate shriek escaped–-Chris couldn't tell from whom–-and, tired as he was, he broke into peals of laughter.  "Jesus Christ, Rob!  Like a pair of teenagers!  Do you ever change?"  He shook his head.  "And it's always the sofa!  I'd've thought by now that you'd've graduated to the bed!"

Suzanne's head snapped up to stare at her brother-in-law. She hissed, "Robert!"

Hogan hung his head beneath her chin.  "I heard," he replied through clenched teeth.  

"Hey, Suzanne, where's he got his hand?  Up your skirt or in your blouse?"  Her eyes narrowed; her mouth open and shut.  Chris went on: "In 40 years, he hasn't changed his technique."

"You haven't changed yours, either, Christopher Aidan Hogan," Robert bellowed; he rose up on the sofa.  He kept his back to Chris to afford his wife some privacy. He pulled himself together, stuffed his shirt tail in his waistband. "Since he was 4 years old, he's been busting in on me.  At least this time, he doesn't have his damned cat.  You'd've only gone pie-eyed over Waldo–like every other girl."

Chris chortled and clapped his hands together.  "Yeah, really."  

He studied his brother and sister-in-law as they stood up to greet him.  Her blouse was misbuttoned, her hair frouzy. But he lost it in giggles as he glanced at his brother. 

"Boy, Rob, you ought to be damned glad it's only me.  If Dad had ever caught you with your pants undone, he'd've beaten you senseless."  

Chris hugged his sides; Hogan looked down, turned beet-red, and zipped up his trousers.  

"How the hell did you get in?  When did you get in?  How come I didn't know about this?" 

"We got in from Dublin.  Spent some time with Enya's family, and then we decided to come spend Christmas with you."  He smiled impishly.  "As to how we got in and the secrecy surrounding it, well, you'll have to take that up with Patrick."  Chris figured his nephew could take the heat.  

Running a hand through his hair, Hogan muttered, "When I get my hands on you, James Patrick Hogan, your widow...." 

For a second, the younger man wondered if his brother weren't going to strangle him.  Instead, he found himself in a bear hug; a hand ran up his back to cup the back of his head. He muttered, pulled out of the embrace, "That's the most forgiving you've ever been about this."

"It's not every day I get my kid brother back from the dead."  Hogan held him by the shoulders.  "God, it's great to see you.  You're looking a helluva lot better than the last time I saw you."  __

_*****_

Chris stretched out on the red velvet sofa, spent from an afternoon in the park with his daughters, his grandnephews, his brother, and his brother's eight-month old Irish setter puppy.   He watched Whiskey lie down in front of the coal fireplace, lay her head on her front paws. Reaching down, he removed the prosthesis, rubbed the aching stump through his pants leg.  

He felt his brother's eyes burn into him, and he apologized.  "Sorry, Rob, I didn't mean to upset you.  I know it's disconcerting to watch me take off my leg."  He looked up at his oldest sibling–-his only one now–-and added, "It was just as wrenching the first time I saw you limping painfully on your cane."

"You realized I was getting old.  But arthritis is a natural part of aging...."

"Stuff it, Rob," he snapped suddenly.  "Your arthritis and hip replacement are as much a war injury as my amputation."  Chris took the proffered neat whiskey, glared at his brother.

Hogan threw back some of his own drink, rolled the tumbler between his hands, and studied the younger man.  "You've pushed yourself too far."  He leaned against his desk.

Carefully, Chris set the crystal tumbler on the cluttered coffee table.  "If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black.  I heard about your collapse at Veronika Metzger's wedding.  Put you right at Herr Doktor's mercy."  Chilled, he hunched under his heavy Arran fisherman's sweater, an early Christmas present from his mother-in-law.  "By the way, how is he?"

"Who's the blabbermouth?  Which one of my overprotective children–Patrick or Renate?  I get the sniffles, and they'll immediately call Dick.  Argh!"

Watching his brother practically bounce with exasperation, Chris folded his arms over his chest and said simply, "Rob, your children love you, and they get really uptight with your foolishness.  Remember, you're their only surviving parent.  They're going to fight to keep you."  He gave a lospsided grin.  "And they're going to complain to me that you're more than they can handle–-which is why they call Dick, who can sit on you," he finished with a laugh.

Hogan kept silent for a few moments before he answered, "Kurt is fine, if insufferable.  He's preening proudly now that he's a grandfather, and from the way he's carrying on, you'd think nobody else in this world had grandchildren."  Hogan shook his head.  "Ilse was born in September.  Veronika and Gunther wasted no time–-like somebody else I could mention."  

Chris grinned.  "Yeah, well, you aren't exactly silent about yours, either, Grandpa, so I'd lay off if I were you."  He took the photo handed to him.

"Very funn.  You'll get there soon enough.  That was taken at Ilse's christening.  Veronika, Gunther, and Ilse are in the middle with Kurt and Anna flanking them.  Philipp is standing by his mom, and the 14 year old imp is Mathilde.  Mattie was something of surprise to her parents."  

"I can believe that.  Here I thought Enya and I were going to get the boys out of the house, have a number of years to ourselves before we hit the grandparent trail.  But no, God has a sense of humor.   2 more bundles of joy. I'll be 60 when they're 18."  

"Don't grumble to me," snapped Hogan. "I was 60 when Patrick turned 20, so I don't need reminders that I'm an elderly father."

_Way to go, Brains.  Tread right on that sore spot._  "Sorry, Rob."  He watched Rob pick up the afghan and drape it over his legs. "Knock it off, dammit!  I'm not an invalid!" 

"No, you're cold.  This damp, chill climate is a helluva a lot different from Hawaii.  And certainly different from Vietnam."  He held up his hand.  "And before you lecture me on how much I hate being fussed over–-and you're right, I do–-you should know that even I know when not to fight.  I didn't fight Kurt when he confined me to bed after his daughter's wedding. I didn't even mind Suzanne's babying.  I think that worried Kurt more than anything."

"What really happened?" 

"Like you, I pushed it too far.  A month after hip surgery I had to go to Washington for a week of meetings.  They absolutely wore me out. I took off for London, praying for a few days rest.  I'd completely forgotten about Veronika's wedding.  So, on the afternoon I got into London, I left again with Suzanne for Germany."  Hogan chuckled.  "Kurt and Anna were enormously surprised when confronted with Suzanne. I'd forgotten in all the hoopla between May and September to tell them I'd remarried. Kurt was hot I'd not told him–-'How could you forget to tell one of your close friends, Robert?'" He mimicked a German accent. "He was even hotter the morning after the wedding when I couldn't get out of bed from pain and fever.  I was completely exhausted.  My body was still trying to get over the trauma of the surgery, and it went on strike.  I spent 5 days in bed with my hip propped with pillows.  Kurt allowed me to go home, but had casually called Dick who enforced another week of bed rest.  I knew better than to try and fight that."  He looked down at his feet. "Thing was I really needed it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Chris, whose chops are you trying to bust?  Mine or yours?"  Silence. "Look, I'm neither blind nor stupid.  You're giving me the full benefit of an emotional roller coaster, but it's yourself you're kicking for going to Vietnam, for putting your family through hell.  So what do you want me to do?  Yell at you for being a fool?  You've beat up on yourself quite enough for both of us.  You felt the need to lead by example.  Last time I looked, that was the definition of leadership.  There's always a price to be paid for it."

"And for goddamned what?  To prove I was still a jet jock at 46?  I could've taken my star and gone to the Pentagon.  Instead I flew 5 missions, got shot down, spent months in a Vietnamese POW camp being beaten and tortured.  What did I do?  Provide leadership?  Hell no.  I damned near left my wife a widow and my children fatherless because I had to be a goddamned hero!"  

He tried choking back sobs, but failed.  "What the hell was I thinking?  That I'd win the goddamned war by myself?  There's no way to win this damned war!"

"It isn't World War II, that's for damned certain.  At least there, we had a righteous cause.  Vietnam is a nationalist mess we should've stayed out of. Or at least understood better.  But no, we had to prove our anti-communist bona fides."  He snorted. "You were being an exemplary officer in a no-win situation.  You did your best, and that's all you could do."

"Cold comfort," Chris snarled.

"I know."  He reached down and squeezed the thin shoulder.  "Now, do me a favor and take a nap.  Dinner will be ready when you wake up."

"What a deal."  At Hogan's dark, closed look, Chris backed off.  He recognized that dangerous edge and decided now was not the time to push Rob, to open his feelings about Vietnam.  "Okay."  He slid down on sofa and was asleep before he knew it.

*****

11 voices filled the dining room with a resounding, if slightly off-key, chorus of "Happy Birthday."  Hogan felt his flush all the way to his toes, but managed to blow out the candles on the cake Enya'd baked.  On one breath all were extinguished.  He surveyed the crowd of adults–-the children had been fed and put to bed earlier–-and gave a big, slightly embarrassed grin.  "Thank you all."  They beamed back at him.

"So, what'd ye wish fer, lad?" 

Margaret nudged her husband.  "Dick, really."

"Ach, always a nosy one, he was," Angharad admonished.  

Having arrived unannounced from Caernarfon, the little Welshwoman, slightly taller than her late sister, tilted her white, braid-crowned head and winked at the physician, who merely rolled his eyes.

"I'd better cut this cake, Margaret, before she makes off with your husband," Hogan teased. 

"Well, he's going to have to fight me for her," said Robbie, a mock glare fixed at Dick.  Angharad gave him a shrewd, almost foxish look from under still black eyebrows.

The Scot threw up his hands.  "What is this?  Why are ye pickin' on me?"

"Because you here, Uncle Dick.  And it's fun."  Patrick ignored the dirty look Penny gave him and added, "But most of all, we can't pick on Dad.  It's his birthday, after all.  So you're his stand in."

"Thanks awfully, boy."

"You're welcome."

Cake plates began moving down the dinner table, and Chris took the opportunity to holler down to Suzanne, "Hey, how are you going to deal with the birthday boy's retirement?"

Enya cut off the half-formed reply. "She'll enjoy it for about 3 days and then realize he's hopelessly underfoot."  She smirked at Chris' outraged expression.  The others just laughed.

"Well," Hogan drawled, pausing in cake-cutting duties, "it'll be nice to be a kept man.  You know, supported in the style to which I've become accustomed?"

"Trop drôle, Robert."  Suzanne's eyebrows shot up before she cocked her head and added, "Actually, for our anniversary in May, I think we'll be going to Tahiti.  After all, we never did have a honeymoon, and I do so love the beach."  Her velvety voice gave clear hints of her expectations.

Hogan's smile became fixed and artificial.  "Tahiti, huh?"  She nodded. "Ah," he started, pulling at his ear, "I think you should know I like eating lobster, but I don't want to be one."   

The room started to giggle. The phone rang suddenly, an escape opportunity he seized with gladness.  "Chris, finish cutting the cake for me, will you?"  He practically bounded out of the room. 

*****

Bernie Mays' voice came through the line. "Happy birthday, sir!  Just calling to let hyou know that Mary's had the baby.  Ah,...."

"Congratulations, Bernie!  How's Mary? and the baby?  You've got details?" Hogan tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the amusement out of his voice.    The wedding had only been 5 months before.  Now the baby.  _It's going to be interesting, Bernie, to see how you two cope_.

"Mary's fine, and the baby's perfectly healthy.  7 lbs 4 oz of baby girl.  19 inches long."  

Bernie sounded enormously relieved, but Hogan could detect a certain hesitation.  _What are you hiding, Bernie?  You didn't?  I hope to hell you didn't._ His eyes narrowed as he asked suspiciously, "What her name?"

Snicker.  "Roberta Edwina Mays, chief.  We're planning on christening her in mid-January.  You will be godfather?"

Giving a short sigh, Hogan replied, "Yes, Bernie, I said I would be. Now, you go home and get some rest.  I'll be by tomorrow to see Mary and my namesake."  _What was that Patrick said about not picking on me because it was my birthday?  Hah!_

"Thanks, chief.  Good-night." Click.

Hogan put back the receiver and sat down, fondly shaking his head and muttering aloud, "Forget retirement.  I'm now a full-time grandfather to six small children."  He chuckled.  "All right, Mary, you win. I won't go against your desire for family."  

Remembering how Romie and Josef Metzger had adopted him, he allowed Mary the same privilege.  She rarely showed her orphaned status, but he'd known it had been, at least in part, behind her liaison with Bernie.  And he didn't believe for a second that the baby was an 'accident'. If she were, she was the most wanted one he'd ever seen. "But, did you have to name the girl Roberta?  She'll be Bobbi for sure.  Yick."  

*****

Patrick yawned enormously as he settled in his father's wingback reading chair.  He cuddled his 7 week-old daughter close against his chest.  He swelled with pride and joy.  He was the king of the universe.  Sprawled in an ungainly fashion, one leg draped over the chair arm, he waited patiently for Miriam to fall back to deep sleep.  He murmured, "If you don't hurry, my girl, your da's going to nod off first.  And that'll make the third time this week that Granddad'll've found us."  

He glanced at his little angel, who gripped his flannel nightshirt in her little fist, and added, "Ah, but you like it when Granddad feeds you.  You want your little mits in his cardigan."  He giggled very softly.  Sliding down a little in the chair, Patrick checked his hold on his daughter and closed his eyes.

The door to the study opened, and Patrick reawakened with a start.  He watched his Uncle Chris limp into the study.  That new prosthesis caused a lot of pain.  Before Chris could get the words out, Patrick answered, "I'm waiting for Miriam to go back to sleep before I take her upstairs."  

His father'd warned him that his uncle prowled in the night; it was a holdover from his POW experience–checking on his men in the middle of the night had tended to cut down on the number who'd gone missing.  

Chris chuckled. "Caught in the act.  Just checking on everybody.  Seeing everything is secure."

"Right.  Do you want me to look at your leg?" 

"No," Chris snapped. "Look, Patrick, I appreciate your concern, but I just have to get used to it.  The worst part isn't the friction of the prosthesis–-it's the feeling that the leg is still there."  He sighed.  "But I'm lucky.  A pungee stick smeared with feces in the foot, gangrene, and amputation below the knee.  It could've been worse.  Much worse."

Patrick did know it could've been much worse—in a wheelchair or dead.  He returned to the patrol: "Have you looked in on Dad yet?"

A raised eyebrow.  "No. Will I get a surprise?"

Patrick bit his lip and nodded.  "Oh, yes."  Miriam had gone to sleep, so he got up carefully, didn't disturb her.  "Come on."

The door to his father's bedroom open slowly.  Patrick and his uncle were hard pressed not laugh aloud.  Hogan and Suzanne lay curled together with Whiskey at their feet; she stretched across the foot of the bed.  Clouseau slept above their heads on the pillows, one front paw touched Hogan's forehead.  

Chris quietly pulled the door shut.  "How long's that been going on?  And where's the parrot?  He needs to be there too!"

"GDP is safely in the kitchen, in his cage.  And to this menagerie, it's been going on for about 3 months. Mom doesn't like dogs, and Dad's allergic to cats, but he got the dog for company on his morning walk. Mom snapped a twig when Whiskey decided she was going to sleep with Dad.  And Clouseau didn't like being usurped by a puppy.  It was a nightly farce for a month until both Mom and Dad threw up their hands in defeat.  The dog and cat then settled their sleeping arrangements between them: foot for Whiskey, pillows for Clouseau."  Patrick giggled.  "Of course, Clouseau and Whiskey are allied against GDP."

"Makes it a fairer fight."

"Not really.  GDP always gets the better of them, singly or as a pair."  He yawned.  "I'm going to turn in now.  I assume my wife is where I left her?"  He didn't give Chris time to answer before entering his own bedroom.  The door caught behind him.

*****

With Nigel clinging to his right leg and Miles perched on his left hip, Hogan very slowly ambled into the family room.  Unlike the dark, Victorian study, this room was much brighter by virtue of its white and gold wall paper, its sky blue, overstuffed furniture and matching plush carpet.  The Christmas tree dominated one corner of the room, dwarfed the spinet at which Patrick sat.  The room rang with his rich baritone as he sang Christmas carols.  Hogan smiled broadly and came to stand behind the sofa, still clutched by his grandsons.  

Patrick finished singing, looked up and said, "Morning, Dad.  Finally decide to wake up and join us?"

"Funny, kid," he croaked.  He took the cuppa offered him by Enya.   He eyed the boys.  "With these two, I wasn't going to get to sleep much longer.  As it was, I narrowly avoided getting pounced on."

"Papa, you should know better than to try for a lie-in on Christmas morning," Renate said without looking up from her fussing twins.

"Give me a break.  Chris and I went to Midnight Mass last night.  We didn't get in until about 2am.  And yeah, I know the last Mass I went to that wasn't a requiem was Patrick's First Communion in 1955. I simply kept my brother company." 

Having answered the shock from some members of the family, Hogan felt Nigel detach himself from his leg, watched him practically jump into Suzanne's lap. He smirked at his wife, mouthing, "Morning, Grandmama." He chuckled at her expression as Nigel made himself comfortable.  "But now that I am here, we can get on with this show."  He edged Angharad over and sat down on the sofa.

Chris appointed himself master of ceremonies and began handing out gifts.  Soon, the room was filled with the sounds of ripping paper, squeals of pleasure, and happy laughter.  Clouseau leapt off the coffee table into the growing pile of paper; Whiskey almost knocked Sinéad and Siobhan over in her enthusiasm for riband.  The girls shrieked in delighted terror.  

Gazing at a heavy package, Chris stopped a moment before handing it to his nephew.  "Some explanation before you open this."  The room quieted.  "Patrick, your aunt and I know how devastated you and Penny were when your apartment burned.  That's a helluva way to start a marriage and a family.  Enya and I wanted to replace what we could."

Patrick pulled the paper off and opened the box. He picked up the top picture–-his parents' wedding picture.  His wife gripped his arm as he looked up at his uncle.  "Uncle Chris...Aunt Enya...."

"We knew that you missed the pictures of your mum the most.  So we went through what we had, and we decided that it was more important for you to have them."  

Chris drew another package from under the tree and handed it to Renate.  

"You know, neither of you had your mothers as long as you should've, but you got a rougher deal, Rennie.  You haven't even had your father all that long.  Enya and I decided to rectify that a little."

Renate quickly opened her package, another collection of photos, some of which were very old.  The first one she lifted out was of a plump, fuzzy-headed baby in a white linen and lace dress held in the arms of its mother.  The woman wore her thick hair in a Gibson girl, and the high collar of her striped dress was closed with a filagree pin.  Renate looked at Chris.  "This is Papa?"

Her uncle giggled.  "Yeah.  All the pictures have dates on the back, and that one was taken June 1908.  He was all of six months old and already giving Mom fits."  He studied the upside down photo before adding, "He was such a cute baby.  I wonder what happened?"  

"I hope he included one of himself in there.  Just so you can see what a pest he was.  And is," Hogan responded.  He asked Chris, "Where did you get the pictures?  I didn't even know these things existed."

"Crickey!" exclaimed Patrick, dragging everyone's attention to him.  He held up the photo of his mother in an Arabian belly dancer's costume.  "Where did this come from?"

Hogan glared at Chris who returned a picture of 'who me?' innocence. _You had to have snapped that at the Potsdam Conference–-before she gave the old Soviet general a heart attack and after you pulled your slip and grope on her!  You definitely caught her in her exhibitionist mood.  _The tiny, voluptuous figure in the skimpy, filmy attire continued to draw his attention. He came up with an acceptable explanation.  "A costume party.  We actually went to parties before you were born."

Patrick gave a weak laugh.  "You certainly didn't have the time or energy afterwards."   

He turned upward at to his aunt's hand on his shoulder.  She gave him a small box, and after opening it, he drew out an intricate, gold locket.  

"For Miriam when she's older." 

Hogan's attention bounced between Patrick and Angharad.  He watched his son pop it open, heard the sharp intake of breath.

"The first picture is of me holding my sister; I was 14 and she was 3.  The other one was taken right before her first marriage.  She was just 18," Angharad explained after Hogan and she shared a conspiratorial moment of sympathy. "So your Miriam has a bit of connection to her grandmother."  

Chris cut in.  "As to how I got them, Rob, Maggie gave them to me.  She had all the family photos, and she turned them over to me right before she died last year.  She told me to parcel them out as I saw best, but under no circumstances was I to let her kids have access to them.  I don't know what she was afraid of, but that's how I came to have them."

Hogan sighed deeply.  "Maggie was afraid of Harry."

"Harry?"  Suzanne refilled his teacup and then retreated to the safety of her chair.

"Our ex-brother in law, and someone I'd like nothing better than to drop out of an airplane without a parachute."

"Yeah, from angels 30[1].  Boozing bastard."

"Yeah, and that's why Emily is the way she is."  Hogan's voice deflated as he spoke.  

Their niece had gotten into heroin.  _Smack's going to kill that girl before she's even had a life._  Hogan picked up his tea, sipped at it, and gazed across to Suzanne.  

"To avoid a repeat of Emily, I have a date in a New York court on 5 January.  I'm going to try and wrest custody of Kevin from Harry on grounds that he's an unfit parent.  It may be too late to rescue the boy, but I'm going to give it a real try."

"Good luck, Rob."

"I'm going to need it."  Hogan surveyed the room, saw the natives getting restless.  "Now, let's get back to our Christmas.  We can ignore the world at least for today."  

He sneaked up behind Nigel and tickled him lightly just below the ribs.  The little boy whooped, triggering his cousins' own giggles.   Whiskey, who'd been resting between the 5 year olds, dashed after Clouseau, who'd surfaced from under the mound of wrapping paper in the middle of the floor.  The cat roared up the white Queen Anne chair.  Suzanne, with the Himalayan behind her head and the barking puppy half-perched in her lap, glared first at Whiskey and then at Hogan.  Occasionally raising his wings and squawking, GDP watched the commotion from his perch in the Christmas tree.

*****

After hanging up the phone in the study, Hogan ripped off his half-eyes, threw them on the desk.  They hit audibly and skittered across the papers.  Abruptly standing, he took an exaggerated deep breath before stalking over to the window.  The light slipped away to nothing; the few cars driving by switched on their headlights.

The door creaked open; Hogan didn't register it.  Angharad eyed him, took in the arms tightly crossed over the chest.  She exhaled softly before calling, "Robin?  Do you want your tea?"  

Not waiting for his answer, she walked over to the coffee table, put down the tea things, and began pouring.  "Well, Patrick and Renate have been comparing photos all afternoon.  They may trade a few, though nothing will prize your formal graduation portrait  from her.  And the picture your brother took of you and Miri...."

"Angharad."

"...wiping cake off each other's faces was priceless.  I understand that had started as an argument?  Summer 1945, right?  I'm sure it was Miri who started it.  Afflicted with a quicksilver temper she was...."

"Angharad," Hogan snapped.

"...though you don't do so bad yourself.  Patrick, fortunately, is not so cursed, but Renate matches you for outright mulishness."  The tiny Welshwoman sat down on the sofa, her hands clasped around her knees. "Not temper so much in her case...."

"Dammit, Angharad, will you just shut up and go away!  Can't you see that I want to be alone?  I just got off the phone with a friend.  The good news is he just got married again.  The bad news is that his only son, his only child came home in a body bag."  His shouting filled the room, but stopped as suddenly as it had begun.  "Gotcha." 

She leaned back against the sofa.  "Robin, the longer you stayed away, the worse I knew it was. We all know that something dreadful's happened.  But when you most need to talk, you most want to flee.  I know how little patience you have for idle chatter; it was a simple expedient to get you explode.  And explode you did."

He threw himself on the sofa, took the proffered tea cup, set it on his knee.  "Henry was only 19.  MIA in Vietnam.  The SEALS rescued him when they overran a camp, but he was too ill."  He drifted back into silence.  "I can't imagine what Kinch is going through."

"You don't want to, and for that, you feel enormously guilty."  She took the sudden, penetrating glare.  "Spare me the hawkish looks.  It's true.  Your son is alive and well, has just given you a granddaughter, and is likely to have more children."

Hogan chuckled. "Safe bet that Penny'll be expecting by this time next year."  He sat up, drank some tea.  "You're right, Annie, I do feel guilty, but at the same time I feel enormously grateful and lucky.  Patrick is whole and safe.  I got my brother back.  Okay, with a leg missing, but still, I got him back."  He drifted back into silence.

"You grieve for your friend, but you've naught to feel guilty about. We all suffer in our own unique ways," she remarked bitterly, thinking of Rhys' death, Owain's near-fatal heart attack, Dai and Gwenyth's messy divorce.  "If you don't think you've suffered enough, let me tell you what I saw when my sister died.  By Dewi Sant, I've never seen a man more disconsolate than you.  But suffering's not the point."

The mantel clock ticked loudly, overrode even the sound of breathing.   Finally, he spoke. "I've 2 healthy, happy children, 5 marvelous grandchildren, and a wonderful wife who unexpectedly fell into my life."  He lunged for Angharad, tickling her ribs. So what if she were almost 68? "And a bossy elder sister I wouldn't trade for the world.  So, are you sparkin' Robbie?"

"Robin!"  She shrieked.

  


* * *

            [1]This is a real Air Force expression.  Angels 30 means 30,000 feet of altitude.  1 angel = 1000 feet of altitude.


End file.
